


The Greater Good

by Nao



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Other, Seriously it’s all subtext, Stark Family Reunion(s) (ASoIaF), Unresolved Tension, there's some jonerys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 85,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nao/pseuds/Nao
Summary: The Battle for the Dawn is approaching. Sansa is working to prepare the North for the battle while also trying to learn how to be part of a family again.  In the South, two queens are vying for control of the Seven Kingdoms.  My take on what happens post S7, The Dragon and The Wolf.





	1. Chapter 1

A raven from Lord Manderly arrived that morning.  The King in the North  was returned from the South.  It was only a small party, though it included the would-be queen herself as part of it.  And a Mormont, which was a surprise.

Even with the illustrious nature of those in his party, the man she had called brother rather than bastard for all to hear for the past few months arrived well after the sun had set. The one she had proclaimed their king, who was working ceaselessly to protect the North and all who lived in her returned with as little fanfare as he could.  It was just like him to avoid attention.  She only knew that he had arrived because she was unable to sleep and instead was standing high up on the wall walk where they had stood after the battle was over.  Where she had decided to trust him.  She remembered that moment as if it were something that had happened to another woman.

The feeling of his lips on her forehead still felt like a brand. Binding them together and strangely though it was even to herself, strengthening her faith in him. He hadn’t been angry even though so many of his men had died. Even though Rickon had died. Even though he himself had nearly died, again.

She shuddered after thinking that and pulled her cloak closer around herself. And as she looked up from tightening the fastenings, she realized that there was light bobbing on the horizon that was not a star. It was torches approaching. A single thought deafened all the others rattling around her head. _Jon!_

Skidding on the snow under her boots, Sansa raced down from the battlements and just managed to make it to the yard before the guards pulled wide the gates. She was there, hood thrown back and the light of the torches catching her hair, when Jon’s horse walked its way to a stop and he flung himself from the saddle. He first made to turn and watch the rest of the riders dismount, but as she’d intended his eye was caught by the light.

His head whipped around and she was frightened a little by the way his eyes drank her in. Just as his scrutiny became too much for her to bear, he moved toward her and she suddenly felt as though she was back at Castle Black, only this time it was he who rushed to her. They collided and Sansa’s breath rushed out of her with one squeeze of Jon’s arms. She squeezed back just as hard and felt him sigh.

As Jon lingered in the embrace, Sansa squirmed slightly as she felt her eyes start to water, but remembered after a moment that it was dark and no one was around to see if a few tears slipped past her perfect lady’s mask. After a minute, they both pulled back and she looked down at him, with a small smile.

“You came back,” she said, simply.

“Aye, I promised I would,” he said seriously. His voice was the same rasp that she had missed in the past few months. No more expressive than usual, other than the hint of the smile beneath his beard and the way his eyes wouldn’t leave hers.

She felt herself flush, as he took her gloved hands in his, though she knew he wouldn’t be able to tell in the dim light.

“There’s so much to discuss, Sansa. They wouldn’t let me send to you. But more than anything I… before anything, you need to know that I listened to you. I tried to be smarter than Father. I tried to be smarter than Robb. Maybe I was even as smart as you,” he stopped. “Remember that,” he said before squeezing her hands and letting go to swing round and face the yard and their guests.

Sansa felt the pleasant warmth drain from her face. The game was always in play, as Petyr had warned her. She wished he was here and then rejected the thought for he was dead by her hand and that was as it should be. She should not long for his guidance when she was the one who had killed him. When he was the one who had sold her. When he had been part of the plot to betray Father. It was wrong.

She raised her hands and clasped them before her hoping that the familiar motion would calm her nerves. Glancing at Jon on her left, she couldn’t help feeling the familiar swell of frustration. Whenever they worked together on something, without fail, they would butt heads like two maddened rams. It was only sometimes, in the quiet early morning or the late evening that they could talk like a man and woman grown. If only he had written, then she might know what to expect from this Dragon Queen. She couldn’t play the game if she was blind. But there was no time.

Lady Brienne and Podrick approached her first and bowed, smiling. They moved off to stand behind her. Ser Davos and a familiar looking young man came next. She and Davos had reached an understanding traveling the King’s road, visiting all the Northern houses. They weren’t quite friends, but he listened to her and kept her informed of the king’s doings, when he could. Now his entirely too stiff demeanor screamed a warning. Sansa nodded slightly in response, and kept her face impassive as Davos stood behind and to her left. The young man who had been beside Jon glanced at her and bobbed a low bow before standing uncertainly before her.

“Stand beside Davos, Clovis,” Jon waved him off to the side. Sansa filed the interaction away to ask Davos about later. And finally, the real players reached them.

A small woman, with pale hair glinting in the torchlight. Lord Varys. Lord Tyrion. A beautiful girl with curling hair and several guards which must have been the Dothraki Lord Manderly had written about stood behind. A tall man in a hood.

Tyrion attempted a small, tight smile as he stepped toward her. He did not reach for her hand, saying only, “Lady Stark. Thank you for welcoming us into your home.” His voice was just as she remembered, and she nearly felt herself smile at him before she quashed it.

“Yes, Lord Tyrion, you are welcome here. You have ever been a friend to House Stark and we are glad to see you once more,” she paused, thinking of Jon’s words to her only a moment ago. “And your Queen too is welcome,” she finished, having put as much coldness into her voice as she could muster.

The queen in question moved to stand beside Tyrion, and her eyes glanced from Sansa, to Jon, and back to Sansa.

“Thank you for your welcome Lady Stark. Although am I not your Queen as well?” the dragon queen queried, her voice was deep and held the barest hint of a challenge.

“The North, as my brother King Robb decreed, is a free and independent Kingdom. We know no King, except the King in the North. And his name now is Jon,” Sansa replied, her tone mild. “Won’t you come into the hall out of the cold?” she asked before anyone there could muster a riposte.

Turning she led the way into the hall. She felt, more than saw Jon drop from her side and move to walk beside the dragon queen. A frown passed over her face for the barest moment, before she banished that too. The game, she reminded herself, the game.

Entering the hall, there were no servants in sight, although the fireplace at the end of the hall was burning brightly and heaped with logs as she had instructed. It was too cold now to let the fire go out. Touching Podrick on his arm she murmured to him to find his way to the kitchens to rouse the staff there and to find her steward. As Podrick ran to do her bidding, she gestured her guests closer to the fire, although the tall man with the hood stayed away. She glanced at him briefly before deciding to ignore him.

“I know how chilled you must be riding in the dark as you have. Please warm yourselves. The cook will make some food and then we shall have you settled in your quarters before the night is too far gone,” she stopped, surveying them.

They looked uncertain, and she mulled over the dragon queen’s question again. Had Jon said that the north would bow to this queen? Surely he would have written if that were so. He would have said something. It came to her in that moment that Jon had said they wouldn’t let him send a raven. She felt a tingle of cold dread shoot up her spine. Jon had used the word let. Kings don’t use the word let. Her eyes turned to him where he stood near the dragon queen.

He felt her gaze and looked up from the fire to meet her eyes. _Seven hells Jon._ Sansa knew then that he had betrayed her. Had betrayed the North. Her heart thudded strangely in her chest and she had to draw in a quick breath. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and gripped them together like a vise and tried to think through the anger. The game, she reminded herself again. The game.

She relaxed her hands, though she kept them hidden and spoke, “Queen Daenerys, I must admit to some shock. I thought for true that you would have ridden with all your army and your dragons to lay waste to King’s Landing. What are you doing so far North?”

Daenerys glanced at Jon and then at Tyrion, “Did you receive no ravens, Lady Stark? No news from the South?”

Sansa shook her head, and felt that cold spike shoot its way up her spine again. She raised her chin to fight off the dread and listened.

“Your brother has bent the knee and sworn himself to me. In return, I have come to help him and all my Northern lords in this battle against the Night King,” she broke off as servants tumbled into the hall.

“I understand,” Sansa spoke over the din of cups and platters being laid out on the single trestle table.

“Of course, the King,” she laid emphasis on the word ever so slightly, “must make such decisions as he sees fit.”

She could see the servants straining to appear not to listen and gave them what they so wanted, “But it seems you do not know much of the ways of the North, Your Grace. Decisions such as these cannot be taken without input from our lords and ladies bannermen.”

Sansa smiled beatifically at the room and had to stop the smile from widening into a smirk at seeing Jon trying to hide his irritation.

“Now. The servants will lead to you your rooms once you are done with your meal, and shall come to wake you in the morning to break your fast. I am sure you will not mind if the meal is a family one and not extravagant,” Sansa glanced around the room, eyes lingering only briefly on Varys and the queen, before giving a brief curtsy and gliding from the room. She assumed Jon would come to find her and was not disappointed.

By the time Sansa had made her way to the Lords chambers, Jon was waiting just inside her door, looking up and down the hallway for her. As he caught sight of her, his expression shifted to one much more tense. She felt the same and had no intention of giving any quarter in this, their first battle since being reunited. In fact, she was rather glad to have him all to herself for a little while. She had been afraid, and then ashamed of the fear, that Jon would ignore her and Bran in favor of Arya once he returned home. At least for this brief moment, she would have his full attention.

And have his attention, she did. As soon as she walked through and shut the door, Jon’s words had her whipping around to face him.

“The North knows no King!” Jon parroted her words back at her, “Sansa, really, how could you say that?”

“Well, what was I to say?” Sansa shot back, striding forward and ripping off her cloak and tossing it and her gloves into another chair, before tumbling into one herself. Jon gave her a look of pure scorn, which made her heart ache with joy and her ears and cheeks flame with irritation.

“You… you could have said anything else!” Jon all but growled the words. “Something like, ‘I have not been asked to serve you, Your Grace’ would have been a good start. At least then she wouldn’t be going to bed thinking I got her up here on a ruse.”

Sansa stared at him for a moment and leaned back in her chair. “Do you mean, my dear brother, that you have brought her up here on a ruse?”

Jon blinked at her, “Of course I did. Wasn’t that obvious?”

“I wouldn’t know Jon. You haven’t written anything. I haven’t heard from you, except a report that you met with Cersei in Kings Landing, in _months_. I didn’t know if you were alive, or injured, or had fallen in love with Daenerys Targaryen and were soon to be her husband. You didn’t even respond to Bran’s letter about Eastwatch. What was I to think?” Sansa kept her voice low, but it shook with repressed anger.

“And now you’re here with a Targaryen conqueror who says you’ve bent the knee and sworn the North, _our home_ away. What, precisely, did you expect me to think?” Sansa finished, breathing hard from the effort she had made to keep from screaming.

She was not surprised to see that Jon too looked as though he was going to throw something or stomp off. He managed not to, in that way he had of pushing anger away to make the sane choice. He walked up to her chair and knelt at her feet.

He grasped her hands, saying, “Sansa, Daenerys Targaryen here because she has two dragons and is willing to use them to kill the White Walkers. I read Bran’s letter. I... she... It was a trap as you said it would be. She wouldn’t hear of becoming allies and wouldn’t credit anything I said about the Night King. When Bran’s letter came, I had to read it in front of her and her servants and couldn’t even let myself react to the news that Arya and Bran were alive. I still can’t, because even though I convinced her that the threat is real, she is not content to help us,” Jon stopped and looked down at their joined hands. “She’s what we need, but once our war with the Night King is through, I have no idea what to do.”

He looked up at her and Sansa felt that terrifying ache in her chest again as she looked at him. She wished he weren’t so earnest. It made staying angry difficult in a way that she had never experienced with Robb or Arya or Bran when they were young.

In response, Sansa leaned down and touched her head to his.

“We have so many enemies now,” she murmured to him and felt and heard the chuckle when it came.

“We’ll fix it together Jon. We will. But for the few hours we have, let’s spend it with our family,” Sansa leaned away from him and squeezed his hands. After looking back at her for a few moments, Jon nodded, letting go of her hands, and rose.

“Let’s go find Arya and Bran, shall we?” he asked, smiling slightly.


	2. Chapter 2

Arya was sobbing.  

That was the most shocking thing.  She had expected them to embrace as she and Jon had at Castle Black and then to sit close as doves, as they were.  As they always had whenever her lady Mother wasn’t there to see.  But her sister was crying as though the world had ended.  Sansa supposed it had and felt her eyes start to burn.  

There was no way she was going to draw Jon’s attention away from Arya, where it belonged, by adding her own misery to the mix.  She sat instead on Arya’s lone chair and bowed her head, struggling to not let Arya’s tears remind her too strongly of the ones she’d shed after Father had been killed, and after word of Robb and Mother had come, and during the ceaseless assaults that had come and come and come.  She couldn’t though.  A few tears made their way down her cheeks and Sansa shook her head violently trying to make the memories stop.  

It was no use. Nothing but time could ever stop the rush of memories from replaying themselves.  The sound of Arya’s hiccupping tears and Jon’s murmuring voice faded away.  She hunched, trying to brace herself against the storm.  After an eternity, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She startled and nearly jumped out of her chair.  

The hand flew away from her shoulder and Sansa looked up into Jon’s face.  To her shame, he looked at her like he would an injured animal. His face was gentle and as was his voice when he spoke.  

“Arya wants to go find Bran,” he said, hand dropping back to his side.  

The invitation was clear in his voice and in Arya’s face, when Sansa turned to glance at her.  Her sister nodded and climbed down from where she had been perched with Jon on the bed.  Sansa nodded back and then swiftly before her demons asserted themselves again, wrapped her sister up in a hug.   

Arya’s arms wound about her, and Sansa felt herself relax just a bit.  They let go at the same time and Arya made an approximation of a smile up at her.  Sansa huffed a laugh and linked their arms together.

* * *

 

The coolness of the hall outside Arya’s quarters was a shock to Sansa, and she hurried her sister and Jon down to the first level where Bran’s new chambers were.  She knew he was like to be awake.  He was changed from the boy she had known, but he had always been one to stay up late dreaming up stories whenever he could get away with it.  That hadn’t changed.  

She knocked and was gratified to hear his low voice bid her to enter.  Sansa pushed open the door and then stood out of the way to let Jon make his way to Bran first.  

Jon strode through the door and bent over to engulf Bran in a hug. This time, the third time, Bran smiled and returned the hug.  Sansa felt the urge to laugh.  She didn’t know if this meant Bran had liked her least when they were children or if being home was helping to heal him as it was her and Arya or if they all just loved Jon.   Perhaps it was a bit of all three.  

Jon drew back, mussing Bran’s hair as he’d done when Bran was small.  Bran’s smile grew.   

“Now you smile,” proclaimed Arya from where she’d hitched herself near the mantelpiece.  Sansa was glad that Arya had been the one to say it.  

Jon turned to look at her, curiously, eyes wide with the question.   

“He’s smiled just once since I’ve been home.  When I saw him in the godswood after I came home. And even when we killed Littlefinger, he was cold.  I thought he’d smile then at least,” Arya replied.   

After a moment of fraught silence in which Sansa felt the strange longing for Petyr mixed with the disgust that she missed him at all rise in her again, Jon spoke.  

“Littlefinger is dead,” Jon said, his tone incredulous, “and you three killed him?”  He paused, eyes flicking from one face to the next.  Sansa sighed, and moved to take the seat nearest Arya.   

Bran explained, “Petyr Baelish was a greater threat to us than Cersei Lannister and Euron Greyjoy combined.  He betrayed Father and Mother to Cersei and made sure that Joffrey would refuse to let Father take the Black.  He made sure that Father would lose his head.  And when he couldn’t have Mother after that, he turned his attentions to Sansa, instead.” 

The smile was gone from Bran’s face now, and Sansa fought the urge to shiver at the emptiness writ large over his features.  It was worse than when she and Arya had been fighting.  At least then she could tell that Arya was threatening her because she was angry.  When was Bran like this, it was as though her brother was gone and some _thing_ sat in his place.   

She saw Jon notice it too and the confused air that made him look like the boy he had been disappeared.  He settled back onto his haunches, and looked up into Bran’s still, remote face and sighed.   

“Tell me how you knew about Eastwatch,” he said, the words not a request.   

Bran blinked and in that moment his eyes became white.  Jon jumped slightly, nearly rising to his feet. Sansa and Arya had seen Bran do this before and but still were unable to avoid averting their eyes.  After a moment, Bran returned.  

“Ghost sleeps at the foot of the heart tree tonight.  Nymeria has changed her mind and brings her pack home to the North.  The hooded man in your party is the Hound.  You nearly drowned at Eastwatch, but Uncle Benjen rode to save you as he did me and Meera.  The new Queen, Daenerys, lost her dragon Viserion to the Night King in the battle beyond Eastwatch.  You lay with her on the trip here.  I know who your mother is,” Bran stopped, his lips pulled tight in another smile.  Though this one was bitter and did not reach his eyes.  

The room was silent and Sansa could see that Jon had stopped breathing for the barest moment.  “How d’you know that?” The question came, almost belligerent in its lack of inflection.   

“The crows, and the wolves, and the trees showed me,” he said, “I’m the Three Eyed Raven now,” the smile faded on Bran’s face and he leaned forward with sudden intensity, “Although with that last I had some help from Samwell Tarly’s lady, Gilly.” 

The mention of Sam and Gilly was enough to break Jon from his silence.  He stood and moved away from them until he had backed into Bran’s desk.  

“What d’you know about my mother?” Jon asked, his accent becoming rougher with the question.  He lifted his eyes to Sansa’s face and then Arya’s, questing for the answer from them.  Sansa was as curious as she had ever been about Jon’s mother, but didn’t see why it was something Bran would choose to prove his power with.  It was seemed nearly as cruel as what he had said to her in front of the heart tree that first day.  

Bran met her eyes as though he knew what she was thinking.   

He did not acknowledge her gaze, but simply turned back to Jon, saying, “I know everything that has happened and is happening to everyone.  Your mother was our Aunt,” he raised a hand to indicate Arya and Sansa both.  “Rhaegar Targaryen set aside Elia Martell and bastardized her children so that he could marry Aunt Lyanna instead.” 

Arya exploded from her spot near the fireplace, “What shite is this?  How can you say that to him!  He’s our brother.  Father always said so. He’s our blood!” 

“Yes.  He is our blood.  He has the blood of the Starks, the First Men in him.  But he is the blood of the dragon too,” Bran said. He didn’t look at his sister once, keeping his eyes trained on Jon’s.   

Sansa looked back and forth between them, Arya having taken the words straight out of her mouth.  Jon, though, was silent.   

“Jon!  Say something,” Arya said, pacing up to him and giving him a punch to the shoulder.   

“Arya, don’t!Leave him alone. It’s Bran who said it,” Sansa said but she, too, was growing flustered by Jon’s silence.   

Finally, he spoke, “Father said that we would talk about my mother when he saw me again.  He said that I had his blood, even though I didn’t have his name.  He didn’t say I was his son.  He didn’t,” Jon trailed off, eyes wide and frightened.  He clenched his hands and stood up from the desk.  Pacing around to the windows, he pulled open the shutters and stood there staring out into the dark.  

Sansa could hear him heaving in great lungfuls of the icy air.  Jon was scared, Arya was livid, and what was she? 

Lost.  

 


	3. Chapter 3

When the fire spluttered, Sansa realized that she had taken leave of her senses.

“Jon shut the window and come here,” Sansa called to him.  She tried to sound as her mother would have scolding them for some foolishness.  It did the trick as Jon, Arya, and Bran broke from their silence to look at her.   

Slowly, Jon raised his hands to the shutters and forced them shut against the rising winds.  He didn’t turn around but leaned forward to rest his head on his hands.  The wind whistled through the cracks in the shutters.   _A storm is just what we need._

Sansa began to feel quite exasperated with the turn this day had taken.  Daenerys Targaryen, the Spider, the Hound and her first husband here in Winterfell.  Her father was a liar, her elder half-brother was not her brother, her sister was showing her true face for once, and her youngest sibling was ripping all their hearts to shreds.  Now all they needed was for everyone to suddenly contract greyscale and the day would be complete.  

“Arya, I want you to go wake Sam.  Bring him here and try not to scare him or wake the baby,” Sansa said.  Her sister looked at her, mulishly, before swallowing whatever the words were to have been.  She made for the door noiselessly and peered into the hallway before disappearing into it.  Sansa shut the door behind her and decided to keep her silence until Jon spoke again.   

She sat herself in the chair before the fire again and took up the poker.  The flames roused with a few vicious stabs and soon the chill was banished.  She glared into them so that she wouldn’t glare at her little brother.  But he spoke and attracted her irritation anyway.   

He rolled closer as he said, “I told you I needed to speak with him.”

Sansa folded her hands over her knees, “And why did you not tell _me_ in all the months that we have been here?”  She held herself straight, her lips folding into a thin line.   

The cold emptiness on his face warmed somewhat as he replied, “I thought you would be angry with him.  The North could not withstand a war between us Starks.  You and Arya clashed quietly, but Littlefinger would soon have forced the issue before our bannermen.  They would have chosen sides... I could not risk it,” he stopped and gave her with his full attention.  

“I am sorry, Sansa, truly,” he said, “I just didn’t want anything more to go wrong.” 

“Anything more...,” Sansa's question was cut off by the door to the chamber being pulled open.  Arya strode in, glared around the room and moved to stand next to Jon.  He hadn’t lifted his head or turned round to face the room yet.  Sam came in next, his face shifting in expression between a smile that made his eyes shine and a frown.  Once he laid eyes on Jon though, the frown was completely wiped away.   

“Jon!” Sam said, the relief and happiness clear as daybreak on his face and in his voice.  It was enough to break Jon out of his depressive contemplation of the shutters.  He turned and paused for only a moment before moving to envelope his brother in a hug.   

After a moment, both men pulled back.  Jon clapped Sam on the shoulder saying, “I thought you and Gilly were safe at the Citadel.  What are you doing so far north?” Jon asked.  He moved away to rest against the closed shutters again, close by Arya.   

Sam said, “Well, it was terribly boring learning to be a maester, is what happened.  All I ever seemed to do was clean up shit and guts,” Sam stuttered for a moment glancing at Sansa and Arya, before continuing.  “They locked up all the really interesting books behind these stupid gates and the only interesting thing I did, no one even seemed to care.  I got in trouble for it actually.”  

Jon smiled, a small smile, but real, and the grip on Sansa’s lungs seemed to loosen.  If Jon was able to smile after a blow like Bran had given him, perhaps they’d be alright.  Even if he wasn’t Father’s son.  Sansa struggled to comprehend how Father could have told such a lie for so long.  He’d even told it to Mother! Jon had taken the Black because of Father’s lie.  How could her father, the honorable Eddard Stark let his sisters’ son become a man of the Nights Watch without once saying anything?  It was odd.  And cruel.  And Father had never been cruel.   

“...Sansa?” Bran said.  Sansa realized everyone was looking at her.  

“What?” Sansa asked, having completely lost the thread of the conversation, mulling over what Bran had revealed.    

“My lady, I was saying I’ve proof that your aunt, Lyanna, was wed to Rhaegar Targaryen.  It goes against what the story we all heard, but it was written the Grand Maester’s personal diary,” Sam stopped, a frustrated look on his face. 

“So our Father lied to his family and the realm since the day Jon was born.  Jon Snow isn’t Jon Sand or even Jon the natural born son of Lyanna Stark. He’s Jon of House Targaryen.  He’s the heir to the Iron Throne,” Sansa said, slowly, the words pulled from her like a milk tooth lingering long after all its brethren had fallen out.   

“Aunt Lyanna named him Aegon,” said Bran, “But Father changed it to Jon.”  He finished speaking and let his eyes linger on each of them in turn.  When he looked at Arya, she twisted her mouth into a sneer, eyes flat and threatening.   

“Do you hate him?” she said, stepping toward Bran until they were knee-to-knee.  Bran looked up at her and his face wasn’t cold any longer.  Sansa was surprised to see that Bran was angry.   

“Of course I don’t hate him.  He’s our brother,” Bran said, a little catch in his voice.   

“Then if he’s ‘our brother’, why in seven hells are you telling us this at all?  We didn’t need to know.  Jon didn’t need to know,” Arya said, voice growing in volume with every passing second, “Father’s lie could have died with him and Aunt Lyanna.  Jon is already the King in the North!  What is he supposed to do with some stupid iron chair?  Who cares about the South?  Let the Southrons deal with their own mess!  You must hate him to hurt him like this,” she stopped.   

Jon had stepped forward to lay a hand on her arm.  With a tug, he turned Arya around to face him.   

“If Bran is what he says he is, then he has done right to tell me,” Jon said, a hand on either side of Arya’s face.  He smiled down at her, giving her a brief kiss on her forehead before letting go.  Arya remained still, looking up at him and Sansa was surprised once again to see that Arya's eyes had tears glistening in them.  Sansa knew it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but Arya was always so aloof.  She dragged her eyes away from her sister to look at Jon.  He had turned away from Arya slightly and bowed his head, as though to confess.   

“I was... Daenerys was... she liked me even though she knew nothing about me except what Tyrion and Varys could tell her.  She wanted me, and I didn’t see a way that would keep her protecting the North without giving her what she wanted,” Jon sighed, before drawing himself upright and moving to stand in front of the fire.   

“Sansa warned me that to go to Dragonstone was as good as walking into a trap, and she was right.  I made the best of it.  I thought that perhaps if she helped us win and she threw down Cersei that perhaps she and I could marry and Sansa could be Queen in the North.  It should be hers, by rights,” Jon said, his face was unreadable but his fingers were clenched upon each other as though he wanted to break something.  

Sam spoke into the silence, “It wasn’t a bad idea, Jon, as ideas go. Kings must marry after all.  And why not bind the Starks to the Targaryens?  Your ancestor Cregan Stark had been promised a Targaryen marriage, almost 200 years ago,” Sam attempted a smile.  

Arya crossed her arms over her chest and stayed silent.  Bran resumed his inspection of the fire before saying, “Would you still marry her?” 

Sansa interrupted before Jon could answer, “That isn’t the question we should ask.  We should say instead, will you still make her think she could have you as her husband?”  

Jon looked at her, face no longer blank but contemplative.  Sansa went on, saying, “You told me you brought her here to save us but didn’t know what the next step was.  And I am telling you, let her save us. Let her think that her reward will be your hand in marriage.  And then if she is able to survive the battle, we send her South to punish Cersei Lannister for her father’s crimes.”  

Sansa leaned forward in her chair toward him, she could feel the tension in her body as she said the vile words, but she wouldn’t let herself stop until she’d said it all.   

“Do you think Cersei will fall to Daenerys Targaryen, a few thousand Dothraki, some thousand Unsullied and two dragons?  If you think that, then you haven’t been listening to me.  Cersei Lannister cannot be beaten by anyone except herself.”   

She could hear her harsh breathing and could feel her hands starting to tremble with the force of the fear she had kept out of her voice.  Jon’s eyes were locked on hers and his lips had drawn downward into a terse line.   

The man who was not her brother said flatly, “We let Daenerys throw her might against the Night King and Euron Greyjoy and Cersei Lannister.  While we do what, exactly?  Wait to eat the carrion after the battles are through?  Will the North even ride into battle to save itself or will we stay at home behind the walls of Winterfell 'til we get a raven telling us it’s safe to come out?” Jon began to pace in front of the fire.  He opened his mouth to say more but Arya spoke over him.  

“I agree with Sansa,” she said, voice cool and uninflected, “What do we care about Daenerys or Cersei or Theon’s uncle?  They are none of them part of our family.” 

“Then who is?  Just us in this room?  What about the Free Folk manning the Wall?  Do they count or just the ones who have sworn themselves to our House?  And what about Theon?  Do we let him die for Daenerys too?” Jon’s voice rose to a shout.   

Sansa worked hard not to jump but she felt Jon’s eyes on her all the same.  He lowered his voice.  

“Sam. What do you think?” Jon asked, passing a hand over his face.   

Sam paused before speaking, staring hard at the floor, “Lady Sansa isn’t completely wrong.  I said much the same to Gilly only recently.  You and your family are my family, Jon.  No one else matters, not really. “

The room fell into silence again as Jon continued to pace in front of the fire.  Sansa spoke after a while, “Littlefinger would have won.” 

“What?” Jon replied, he turned to her, unsure.  

“He would have won.  He’d made Arya think that I wasn’t supporting you while you were gone.  And he’d made me frightened enough to believe that Arya might kill me.  Bran saved us.  He told us that Littlefinger had betrayed Father in Kings Landing. But before I knew any of that, I knew that Littlefinger was the one who saved me, over and over again.  And because of that, because I knew my family to be gone else they would have saved me, I was loyal to him for a time.  I made his ways my ways and learned to think as he did.  I think I learned enough to win, if we play the game the way he taught me,” she paused, her eyes still on Jon.   

“I want to be better than him.  I want to be good like Father and Mother and Robb were.  But I don’t remember how.  All I know is his way.  And if we play his way, we win.” 

Jon looked at her, his eyes flicking over her face as though he was probing for a lie.  He sighed after a moment and looked around the room at them all.   

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.  I’ve already done that once playing this kind of game.  I don’t know that I can do it again.  And I don’t think any of us should have to.”

Arya scoffed, “If we weren’t willing to hurt others so that we could live, all of us would be dead.  I want our family to live, Jon.  I don’t care what that means for anyone else.”

“Really, Arya?  You don’t care?  Then why did you only kill the Frey’s who had been at the Red Wedding and not all of them?” Bran asked, “Why didn’t you kill those Lannister foot soldiers?  Why did you go to see your friend, Hot Pie, at the inn?  Don’t lie to yourself.  You’ve worked too long and too hard for that.  And we can hardly afford it at this stage,” Bran stared up at his sister, his eyes hard but not as cold as they could be.  

“None of us are wrong, Jon.  But I think we must make a choice.  We can save Daenerys or ourselves.  We can save our bannermen or hers,” Bran said.  


	4. Chapter 4

“Is this who we are?” Jon asked quietly.  “Have we all forgotten how he raised us?”

He looked around the room at them, almost as though he was begging for one of them to speak up and deny it.  

“There is room for honor, Jon.  And when we win, we will not forget to care for those whose lives depend upon us.  But we look  _weak_ as we are.  We are two girls, a bastard, and a crippled boy who most think addled.  Our largest force is not even sworn to us.  So unless you agree, we will lose and we will die,” Sansa replied, drawing Jon’s eyes to her alone.  

Sansa watched him closely, knowing that this back and forth was only a fragment of all they needed to discuss.  She hoped that Jon would agree to their idea faster than he had agreed to take back Winterfell.  It had taken a threat from Ramsay Bolton to move him then.  What could possibly move him this time, if he would not agree after all they had said? 

Jon shook his head and looked away after a few moments.  

“I need to think.  I need to sleep in my own bed—,” he trailed off, looking lost.  

Sansa sighed, fiddling a little with the chain adorning her gown.  

“Sam, would you help Jon to bed?” Sansa asked, not meeting anyone’s eyes.  

“Oh, of course, my lady.  Come on Jon.  You can show me your chamber,” Sam took Jon by the shoulder and gently propelled him out of Bran’s room.  The door shut softly behind them.

Only then did Sansa raise her eyes to look at her remaining brother.  

“What are you doing?” Sansa asked severely.  She could feel her lips pulling themselves into a tight line and tried to relax.    

Bran replied, “Father always tried to be merciful.  Even when he was going to reveal Cersei Lannister’s treason to Robert, he showed her mercy and gave her a warning.  He couldn’t have known that she would choose to attack rather than run.  Jon is like that too.  He’d rather defend than attack first.  We must make him angry enough to forget mercy for a time.”

Arya _hmmed_ , thinking.  Her eyes were distant before they focused on Sansa.  

“What will he do tomorrow?” she asked. 

“He’s as like to be on her side as he is ours.  He won’t let her hurt us or our people, but that doesn’t mean much since we’re the ones who need her armies,” Sansa said, reluctantly. 

“He is already part of the way to agreeing with us,” Sansa went on, “he just needs more time.  So let us give him until the morning.”

Arya gave a little huff of irritation but nodded despite that.  Bran looked at her, clearly worried, before nodding in agreement.  

“Good. Then I am going to my chamber to sleep before dawn breaks,” Sansa said.

* * *

Sansa had fallen into a dreamless sleep, blessedly.  All the stress and fatigue from the evening before came rushing back the next morning, though, and she felt as tense as she had on the eve before the battle for Winterfell.  She forced herself out of her bed and dressed simply, leaving her hair hanging before her ears and around her face in the simple style that reminded her of her lady mother.  

Leaving the room, she wrapped her cloak around her and went to go find Jon.  She mulled it over slowly, before lighting on the idea to seek him in the crypts.  Jon didn’t pray, no more than she did, so he wouldn’t be in the godswood.  She guessed darkly that it must hard to pray when you’ve been dead before.  

The cold was brisk in the grey light before dawn, and Sansa hurried across the yard, quick steps making the ice she tread on crack loudly.  At the entrance, she was glad to see the torches leading down were already lit.  Her guess had been right.  

Descending the steps, it wasn’t too long before Sansa saw the figure she was searching for.  Jon was wearing the cloak she’d made for him.  The one that made him look like Father.  She called his name, gently, so as not to scare him.  

He turned his head, slightly, before looking away again.  It felt colder in the crypts after having him dismiss her like that, but Sansa did not let herself stop walking until she stood by his side.  

“I thought I would find you here,” she said, by way of greeting.  

“What do you want?” Jon replied grimly.  He wouldn’t look at her, preferring to keep his eyes on their father’s statue.  Sansa swallowed hard as she remembered.  It was his uncle’s statue.  

She laced her fingers together and breathed quietly for a moment.  

“I want you,” she said.  The simple words were enough to have him rustle around to face her.  His face was confused.  

“You want me to do what?” he asked warily.  

“I want you to live well and happily here in the North as my King. I want you to do what you promised and protect me.  I want you.  Not as my brother, since you were never that, but as you yourself,” she gripped her fingers together tighter, hearing the leather of her gloves creak. 

Jon looked at her, a dazed expression on his face, as though he couldn’t credit what he was hearing.  It was almost enough to ease the ache in her belly and gave her the courage to speak again.  

“It’s easier to remember who I was when you’re here.  There’s joy in performing my duties when you’re here.  It doesn’t matter that you’re my cousin.  Father loved you and wanted you to live here in the North, else he would’ve left you to be raised as a bastard in Dorne.  It’s not a terrible life from the stories I hear,” Sansa said, quiet and earnest.   

Jon exhaled loudly, looking away from her.  

“You’re trying to make it hard for me to say no to your idea,” he said, voice still gruff.  

“Nothing I’ve said is a lie, Jon.  I do want you, hard though it is for you to believe.  I wish you would listen to me,” Sansa said, mouth pulling into a little moue of frustration.  

She waited a moment, sudden horror striking her, “Does that mean you _wanted_ to marry Daenerys then?  Have I misunderstood?  Do you love her?”  

“No!” Jon said, wrenching around to face her, “I just wanted to give you what you deserved.  You deserve to be Queen.  You are the eldest after Robb.  And you’ve worked hard to gain loyalty.  It would’ve been right, and it would’ve ensured your safety.”

Sansa scoffed at his talk of rights and safety, “You have lost your senses.  I have no wish to rule the North without you,” she reached out to grab his hand, “Hear me, please.  I need you with me.  Not just as the King, but as you.”

His eyes flicked down to where her hands grasped his.  He spoke slowly, “What if she dies thinking that I loved her?  She’ll die for a lie.”

Sansa sighed, keeping her grip tight on his hand.  She said, “What was it you said?  You are King now.  You must act like one. Daenerys Targaryen is not your Ygritte.  She is a queen who won to her side Tyrion Lannister and Varys the Spider, the Dornish, the Lady Olenna, Lady Yara and Theon, a legion of Unsullied and the Dothraki.  They are all sure to give her good counsel.  If Bran has told it true and you and she were together on that ship, her advisors are sure to know,” Sansa grimaced slightly as she said the words, but went on, “Tyrion and Varys will have warned her that your intentions may be less than honorable.” 

Jon’s face was still clouded, but she had his attention so Sansa made the best of it, trying to convince him. 

“This is the way it works Jon.  We highborns play our games and if we play well and are true to our oaths, our people will not suffer for it.  You must be willing to keep playing the game to live.  So that the people who depend us can live.  But if you think that because I want you and me and our family to survive, I am no better than the oathbreakers who murdered Mother and Robb and his lady Talisa, then we may as well eat Wolfsbane right now,” Sansa paused, seeing how Jon’s gaze had grown horrified.  

She gentled her voice to something less strident, “I will not be able to survive without you Jon.  You of all people must know that we are stronger together.”  Sansa stopped herself though she wanted to continue railing at him.  Jon turned his face away from her, his entire posture screaming his apprehension.  Sansa let go his hand and let him retreat.  She faced her father’s statue again and waited, watching the light and shadows dance over his likeness, wishing hard that he had told Jon the truth before dying.  Wishing that he was here now.   _Why didn’t you tell him?_   

Some time passed before Jon sighed, saying, “In a while, we are going to sit down with Daenerys, Tyrion and Varys and her captains and convince them to fight with the North to defeat the Night King.  I made the mistake listening to Tyrion’s fool idea and went beyond the Wall at Eastwatch to see with my own eyes the truth of Bran’s report.  Because of that, one of Daenerys’ dragons is dead.  I won’t make that mistake again.  This time, we fight on our own ground.  Where the very land we stand on is kept warm by the springs.  That itself might spell an end that would be in our favor.”

Sansa waited, looking at him from the corner of her eye, still holding herself tensely.  

“But Sansa, if we live, and Daenerys lives, but Cersei falls, we’ll be trapped.  Our bannermen won’t accept her.  And they won’t accept me as King if they find out the truth.  I won’t see you stabbed in the heart like I was,” he stopped, voice becoming choked and rough, “he’d really haunt me then, if you died.  So promise me, if somehow the truth becomes known, you’ll pretend that you didn’t know.”

He moved closer to her, and took her hand in his.  “Promise me, Sansa,” he said, the words quiet and desperate.  

Biting her lip, Sansa waited until he looked up at her.  When he did, she dipped her head once, reluctantly.  It was a promise that she had no intention of keeping, but if it would make Jon happy to think that she’d betray him to save her own life, then she’d say the words.  Words were wind after all.  She moved her hand to his arm, and gave it a tug. 

“Come, walk with me, and see what’s been done while you were away south and I’ll tell you how we might win the war after this one,” she said.

* * *

 

Sansa had shown Jon around the yard, the caches she’d had built for the food, the forges, and the progress made on repairing the stonework.  He had been impressed, she thought, though his face hadn’t revealed much.  They had separated so Sansa could go to the kitchens and Jon could go find Bran and Sam.  

She’d been pleased to find Arya, Brienne, and Podrick there.  She joined them in their corner, occasionally stealing bites from her sister and listening to Podrick talk about Kings Landing.  

“The Dragon Pit was the largest thing I’ve ever seen, my lady.  I didn’t get to see Daenerys' dragons though, although Lady Brienne did,” the young man looked at Brienne, smiling hopefully.

Brienne raised an eyebrow, saying, “I’ve already described it to you Pod.  It was a great, scaly beast.  It landed.  It flew away.  There’s not much to tell.”  

Arya smiled slightly, before shooting a glance at Sansa, “Did you find him?  I looked for him in the godswood and his room, but he wasn’t there.”

“I found him.  He’s gone to find Sam and Bran.  Our guests should be ready to talk, will you come?” Sansa said, keeping her voice low.  

“Of course I will.  You didn’t need to ask,” Arya replied, a hint of irritation on her face.  She gave her platter to Podrick and looked up at Brienne, “We’ll train together later today, I hope.  The master at arms is no match for you.”  

Brienne looked down in pleasure and nodded her agreement.

“Good,” Arya gave a toss of her head to Sansa, waiting for her to leave first.  

As they made their way from the kitchens back to the hall, they were quiet, although the silence wasn’t as simmering with danger as it had been when Littlefinger was playing them against one another.  It was the thought of him that made Sansa speak.

“This morning, let Jon and I do the talking,” Sansa asked.  Arya looked at her, eyebrows raised in a question. 

“He knows Daenerys now, and I know what kind of man Tyrion is.  I need you to keep quiet and observe them.  Observe them all, so that we can begin to understand them.  If they become interested in Bran or how he knew about Eastwatch, distract them somehow, but don’t let them think you’re a threat,” Sansa said.  

Her sister looked at her curiously, but agreed with a raise of her eyebrows.  Then they were at the doors, and Sansa smiled at her sister.  

“Let’s play a game, shall we,” she said, self-deprecatingly.  The joke was for herself, but Arya smiled too, wolfish and cold.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Jon saw her and Arya first.  He rose, eyes unwaveringly locked on hers and suddenly Sansa felt as though she'd stepped too close to a fire.  She hoped the flush wasn’t obvious and was glad of her hair hiding her neck and ears.  She managed to break his gaze as the others at the table rose too.  They waited to sit until she and Arya had walked round the table to stand between Jon and Bran.  

Sansa was gratified to see her sister had followed her unspoken directions and remained standing.  They curtsied together smoothly, Arya apparently having paid attention to some of Septa Mordane’s lessons.  She watched beneath lowered eyelashes as the queen tilted her head curiously.  When Daenerys nodded in acknowledgement Sansa sat, followed by Arya.  There was a brief silence filled by after a moment by Daenerys. 

“Lady Sansa, we meet again,” she smiled slightly at her and turned her head to Tyrion.  

He gave his queen a brief glance and spoke, “Lady Sansa, I assume you recall Lord Varys, but these are Ser Jorah Mormont, Grey Worm, Captain of the Unsullied and Missandei of Naath, our queen’s advisor. 

Sansa nodded at them all, the smile still on her face.  “Well met, my lords, my lady.  I see you have already begun eating.  I hope all is to your liking.”

“Of course, my lady,” Varys responded, “and I must say how sweet it is to see you once more.  The last I had heard there was some troubling tale of you having been married to Roose Bolton’s son.  It is good to see that you have removed that vile family from this place.”  

Sansa didn’t let herself react to his words, although she tried to hold herself straighter in her chair before speaking, “Thank you for your kind words, Lord Varys.  My brother is the one who defeated the Boltons, however.  Not I,” she bowed her head slightly, hoping that none would contradict her.  None did, and Davos took up the thread of the conversation, steering it to what needed to be said. 

“Well, you’ve come all this way to Winterfell.  And we are glad of it.  But we must speak of how we are to defend the Seven kingdoms, now, and not sit here exchanging pleasantries.  Your Grace,” he looked at Daenerys, “can we count on your Unsullied and Dothraki to survive this cold?  It will get worse before it gets better.”

Daenerys frowned at him, piqued and said, “The provisioning of _my_ army is not really your concern, Ser.  My men will be able to fight in the cold.”  She glanced at Jon.  

“Will we go north to the Wall again?” Sansa tried not to look at the woman too closely, although she was taken aback slightly by how soft and familiar Daenerys’ voice became when speaking to Jon.  She knew that her sister would be observing for her, though and instead Sansa surveyed Ser Jorah.  He was peering at Jon, his bronzed, weather-beaten skin was almost enough to distract from the way his eyes were keen on Jon’s face.

She listened to Jon’s reply as she moved her eyes to over to Missandei, who was looking down at her plate with a faint, fixed smile.

“No, Your Grace, I think we must draw the Night King down into our lands.  We’ve received word from Castle Black that something has happened to the Wall.  Until we know more, we must assume that somehow the Night King’s army has breached the Wall.  Ravens have been sent to the folk living further north, telling them to come to Winterfell.”

Sansa blinked, startled.  She turned to Jon and saw the others, except for Bran and Sam, give Jon all their attention too.  

“So quickly?  You’d let the Walkers come so far south?” Tyrion asked.  

“Yes, my lord and I would.  The rocky moors of the North are no good to defend against the dead.  They would swarm us.  The walls of Winterfell will help, and the moat, and the Wolfswood.  How soon do you believe the Unsullied and the Dothraki will be able to march here?” Jon asked.  

“If our ships are not attacked on the way from Dragonstone, they should be here within the fortnight.  We expected more time for the men to be acclimated to the weather,” Tyrion finished, concern clear in his voice.  Sansa wondered at it and thought that perhaps he had hoped to hold bringing Daenerys’ forces north until the last possible moment.  

“Two weeks should be enough time.  In the intervening time, our new Master blacksmith will be overseeing the effort to turn the dragonglass into weapons.  We hope that we can forge it into something more hardy than we’ve been able to so far,” Jon said.  He was interrupted by Varys.

“You have a new blacksmith?  And who is this paragon of knowledge?  I know of only two who claimed to have the secret to forging weapons from obsidian,” Varys asked, a strange look on his face.  

Jon frowned at him before looking over to Davos.

Davos answered, slowly, “His name is Clovis and he hails from Kings Landing.  He doesn’t claim to be able to work obsidian, just said that he’d give it a try.”

There was a beat of silence before Varys pressed on, “Nonetheless, might I meet him?” 

“Certainly,” Jon replied, his irritation at the turn the talk had taken clear, although he gestured for one of the men at arms nearby to go on the errand.  

“We also need to discuss how to utilize your forces, Your Grace,” Jon said.  “I would not want your army to expend itself fighting for us without getting a better understanding the land around Winterfell.  With your permission, I would like to meet separately with Grey Worm to discuss the best placements for his foot soldiers.”

“I don’t see why not.  We do not know the North well, it would be good for Grey Worm to learn from you directly.  Missandei can accompany you to help,” she said, and Missandei responded seamlessly.

“Of course, Your Grace.  I would be glad to lend assistance,” she said, her voice light and accent-less.  Sansa was surprised.  Most folk from the East, even those so near as Braavos spoke the Common Tongue with an accent that marked them out.  

“Good.  Then when shall we tell your bannermen?” Daenerys asked, her eyes trained on Jon.  Jon replied easily, even as Sansa's heart sped up at the reference to Jon having pledged himself to her.

“When they arrive, Your Grace.  Our lords and ladies will respond best when they’re all together to hear the news.  Elsewise, they’ll stay at home and brood on it,” he said, his tone one of a man sharing a joke known to his friends, “you know how we are.”

Sansa saw Arya lean back in her chair and raise her cup to her lips, and had to work at not smiling herself.  A noise at the bottom of the hall attracted all their attention before Daenerys could say more. 

The man at arms had found Clovis.  He looked familiar as he had last night, though Sansa still could not say where she knew him from.  When he reached them, she was surprised by her sister rising abruptly from the table.  She looked over at her as Arya’s chair scraped on the stones, mouth open to ask a question.  The look on her sister’s face stopped her.  Sansa whipped around to look at Clovis’ face in turn and was bewildered to find him looking at Arya as though he’d found something precious and long thought lost.  

Ser Davos saved the strange situation by standing up and booming out a greeting to the young man, “Clovis!  Come greet the Queen, Daenerys Targaryen.  She’s the one who’s supplied all the dragonglass you’ll be working on.”

Clovis walked around the table to stand at Davos’ side, “Hullo, Your Grace,” he said, confusion laced his tone and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at Arya even as he bowed awkwardly to Daenerys.  

Daenerys raised an eyebrow, and asked curiously, “Do you know the lady Arya?”

“Eh?  Oh.  Yes, Your Grace.  She and I traveled together once,” the young man seemed to gather himself suddenly, and his eyes crinkled around the edges in a blinding smile.  “She asked me a question, but I gave the wrong answer and we were split apart soon after.  I never thought to see her again.”  

Sansa knew suddenly where she’d seen him before.  He looked like Father’s friend, the old king Robert.  She dropped her eyes from his face, and reached out a hand to her sister and placed it gently on her arm.  Arya looked down at her and seemed to wake from a reverie.  Her face closed off and she slowly sat.  

“How lovely,” the dragon queen said, sounding amused.  “Were you not wishing to ask him a question, my lord?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Varys said, slowly, “Sweet lad, describe for me the nature of the shop where you worked.  Where was it?  What did it look like?”

“It was a place at the top of the Street of Steel, with one door of black and the other white.  Master Mott was a good enough sort,” Clovis paused, peering curiously at Varys, “we got a lot of highborn visitors but I don’t remember none like you.”

“I see.  Did you ever meet the lord Eddard Stark?” Varys asked, voice smooth but Sansa noticed his gaze had shifted from the blacksmith’s to Jon’s.  Jon sustained the look, his own face guarded.  

Clovis did not hesitate to answer, “I had that honor mi'lord.”

“Yes, he was an honorable man.  I do hope that your master was able to pass on all he knew of metal working.  We have need of it most desperately,” Varys said smiling, but Sansa knew a threat lay beneath the words.  Varys knew who Clovis was.  The old King’s bastard son would be safe so long as he was needed and not a moment longer.  She felt a sudden affinity for her father then.  The grandson of a king sat beside her and was also safe just so long as no one knew.  

“With your permission, Clovis, Ser Davos, and I could begin right now?” Sam interjected.  “Time is running short and there’s much to do to prepare,” Sam said, voice wavering slightly as all eyes turned to him. 

Jon glanced at Daenerys, who nodded her assent.  

“We all have much to do, so I will not ask you to stay at table any longer.  Lady Stark, I thank you for the meal.  Might we have another, you and I, this evening? Your sister might join if she wishes.”

Sansa let her eyes meet Tyrion’s for a moment before she smiled at the dragon queen.  

“It would be my honor Your Grace.”

“Good.  Let’s be about our work then,” Daenerys said rising.  They all rose in turn and watched her stride from the hall, Ser Jorah and Varys accompanying her.  

Barely, Sansa heard Jon sigh.  “Grey Worm, Missandei if you would like to come with me to my solar we can begin planning.”  

Jon glanced at her briefly before leading them away.  

Sansa reached out her hand to Arya, knowing exactly why Jon had glanced at her.   _His name likely isn’t Clovis._  “Arya would you be so kind as to show Lord Tyrion to my room?  He and I have much to discuss.”  

Sansa squeezed the arm under her hand in warning, and Arya agreed silently.  She watched the two of them leave before she turned to Clovis.  

“Do not tell anyone more than what you told us.  Your name is _Clovis_.  You’re a blacksmith from Kings Landing who owed a favor to Ser Davos.  When you talk with Arya, do so quietly and without being seen,” Sansa hissed, keeping her voice from carrying to the rest of the hall.  

See Davos nodded firmly.  “Lad I told you this was going to be dangerous.  You thought I meant having to do battle, but that’s not all I meant.  Now come along and listen this time,” he ushered the young man away, Sam trailing after them.  

Sansa sighed, tucking her hands into her sleeves.  “Will you go to the godswood Bran?  You must need to see what is happening north.”

“Yes,” he replied, distantly. Sansa could tell his thoughts had already left her.  

“Go.  I’ll send a runner to Maester Wolkan to let him know to find you there.”  

He nodded and pushed himself down the length of the hall.  Sansa bit her lip, watching him leave the hall with his man.  After a moment, she managed to make herself start walking and tried to rationalize away her nerves as she made her way up to the lords’ chambers.   _It is only Tyrion._   She needed to meet with him to understand just what he was doing at the side of Daenerys Targaryen.  She couldn’t understand it really.  Tyrion was a Lannister.  Daenerys should’ve hated him.  

Finally, she was there.  The door was open, just as she’d hoped it would be.  Tyrion was talking to her maid, Lyanora.  

“Have you served Lady Stark long?” he asked, tone idle. 

“Only since the battle, mi'lord.  It’s not hard service. The lady hardly asks for anything except help with the sewing for the little lord, Bran, and Lady Arya.”

“Not for the King?” he asked, curiously. 

“Oh no, mi'lord.  Lady Sansa makes everything for the King herself.  She often—,” Lyanora stopped as Sansa stepped around the corner into the room.  

Sansa inclined her head toward the door, “Thank you Lyanora.  We won’t need anything.”  

The girl gave a quick curtsy and as she passed close by her, smiled conspiratorially.  Sansa raised an eyebrow in response.  She was fine boned and beautiful, like another lady’s maid she’d had.  But with pale blonde hair where Shae had been dark.  

Margaery had told her of Tyrion’s reputation once long ago.  It wouldn’t hurt Lyanora to have Tyrion tumble in bed with her.  He wasn’t going to hurt her or get a child on her in any case.  And it might prove useful to know what he was thinking. 

Then Sansa was closing the door and seating herself across from her husband.  She supposed they weren’t still married since she didn’t keep the Seven and after Ramsay, but it wouldn’t do to leave the question unanswered.  

“My lord—,” she started and was gratified when he all but rolled his eyes at her.  

“It’s much simpler to use my name, wouldn’t you agree?  And I don’t think I’m the lord of anything right now,” he said with a sigh.  

Sansa replied, “You are the Hand of the Queen, are you not?  And the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock?  And second in line for the Iron Throne if we discount your Queen?  You’ve risen high, Tyrion.”

He laughed, looking surprised, and settled back into his chair.  

“I suppose I am all of those things.  And you, my little wife, are Lady of the Dreadfort and heir to Winterfell and the North.  It suits you, as I always thought it would,” he said musingly.  

“Being Lady of the Dreadfort suits me?” Sansa asked.  She let herself frown.  

“Power suits you.  You know what I meant.”  Sansa tilted her head, acknowledging the compliment.  There was a silence in which they looked at each other.  

“You aren’t my wife, I know.  I only say it to tease you,” Tyrion said, a small smile crossing his face before disappearing.  

“I know.  But I hope we are still friends.  The way we had started to be before,” Sansa said, hoping that he would agree.  He did. 

“I will always be a friend to you, Sansa Stark.  And to your family,” he said it firmly, pushing himself upright in the chair to lean toward her. His earnestness gave her the courage to ask her question directly.  

“Then why does she ask us to become a part of the kingdoms again?   Are you not her Hand?”  Sansa asked.  

“You and Varys are the same,” he replied, petulantly, “I am not her head. I am her Hand.  I give her counsel and then do as she commands.”  

“Did you counsel her to tell the King in the North to swear himself and his lands to her?”

“No.  Jon Snow did that on his own,” he paused, “He’s half in love with her I think.  Like Mormont and every other man she comes across is.”

“Then counsel her now.  Talk to her so she’ll see that the North will not kneel again,” Sansa asked, hoping that he might be convinced, that it might be so easy.  

Tyrion shook his head, an odd, almost desolate look on his face.  “If they don’t kneel, it doesn’t matter.  She’ll burn them until she finds the ones who are willing to.  That’s what she did to Tarly.”

“Tarly?” Sansa asked, lost. 

“Randyll Tarly and most of his bannermen are dead by dragonfire or the Dothraki.  He wouldn’t concede to her after she burnt his forces.  So she burnt him and his son.  Then they knelt.  All of them that had survived."

“So you see, men love her.  Men fear her.  Either way, they kneel,” he laughed, the sound bitter.   


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa felt her stomach roiling.  The Tyrell’s were the paramount lords of the Reach, and they were all dead.  The Tarly’s male line, but for Sam, were dead too.

“Who rules the Reach, Tyrion?” Sansa asked. She failed to keep her voice from shaking.  

“Daenerys does until my sister finds the forces to secure it.  Some of the Dothraki are there, riding as they please.  Making sure that no holdfasts or lesser lords stand again to defy her,” he met her eyes, assessing her. 

“You wish for me to counsel her against demanding the North kneel?” he asked, seriously, before continuing, “I would _never_ put you in so much danger.”  Sansa knew her face was horrified, but couldn’t seem to stop herself from imagining it.   _Will she burn Jon and Arya?  Would she burn Bran?_ She tried to breathe, but her body rebelled and she found herself near tears instead.  

“Sansa,” Tyrion said worriedly.  “Sansa, what is the matter?” he made to come toward her and Sansa stood, backing away.  He stopped abruptly, whatever words he had been about to stay muted by her reaction.  

Finally, after a moment, once Sansa was able to control her breathing, he spoke again, “I am sorry.She is terrible, I know.  But she is the right kind of terrible, I think.  Despite how she chooses to reward those who defy her, she’s amassed such a following because she hates to see anyone deprived of their freedom.  I’d say there were plenty in Westeros who could benefit from her wish to set the world to rights.  Both high and low will stand to gain if Daenerys is on the Iron Throne.” 

He smiled, awkward and uncertain in the face of her discomfort and Sansa took herself in hand.  “I didn’t mean to worry you, but I have only just reclaimed my home.  How am I to be sure it won’t be taken from me again if Daenerys decides that we have not been loyal?”

Tyrion was silent, and Sansa felt the dread she’d beaten back surging again.  Then he repeated himself, slowly, “Your brother is half in love with her I think.”

Sansa moved back to her chair and sat down.  “I agree,” she said querulously.  “What does that matter?”

“Your parents were famously loyal to each other, despite your father bringing home his bastard.  What better way to ensure loyalty between two houses than marriage?  Especially a marriage built on love,” he said, the look on his face intent.  “Perhaps you might ask your brother if he is going to do more than visit the queen’s chambers at night.”  

Sansa peered at him, letting a silence develop.  “This would require some thought, my lord.  Jon is the head of our family.  We cannot make such a decision lightly.”  

Tyrion waved a hand, “Of course, of course.  But the Jon Snow that I know would not wish to father a bastard.”

Sansa inclined her head sharply, torn between feeling triumphant and weary.  

 

* * *

 

Sansa had escorted Tyrion back to the hall and watched as he made his way from there to his guest chambers.  As soon as the doors swung shut behind him, Sansa left the hall to try to find Jon.  She looked in his bedchamber and then his solar, but both were empty.  She paused, thinking, and then made her way outside.  Just as she’d made her way to the yard, Sansa saw him swing onto his horse.  Daenerys Targaryen was on horseback too, along with Ser Jorah and Grey Worm.  Sansa let loose a sigh and turned around to go find Ser Davos.  Telling Jon her news would need to wait, but there was no need to wait to tell his Hand.  

The hours until dinner spun down, although Sansa kept herself busy directing her staff in how they were to accommodate the arrival of the queen’s forces.  She had found Missandei and Ser Davos, thwarting any attempts she might have made at discussing the news.She set herself to corralling them into helping her with the arrangements.  With their help, the day’s tasks were finished swiftly.  

She found herself thinking that it would be rather pleasant to have the castle full of Daenerys Targaryen’s people if they were all like Missandei.  Sansa was pleased enough to offer Missandei a tour of the castle and before long they found themselves drawn to the covered walk that overlooked the training yard.  

A dull roar of voices had attracted them and as they approached the roar was pierced by a laugh Sansa hadn’t heard in years.  Arya was _laughing_ as she tested herself against Podrick.  It was like the woman she’d become was stripped away, and it was the girl who’d bested Bran at archery stood before her again.The whip-thin Needle Jon had given her chimed as it struck Pod’s broad training sword.He’d gained speed from somewhere, and managed to twist away from a swat to his backside, but even so, his skill was not quite enough to stand against her sister.  From the side, the cause of Arya’s laughter was Brienne giving exasperated instructions to her squire.  

“Don’t sit there like a log!  Attack!  She’s given you the opening!”  Of the men that were the cause of all the noise, Sansa noticed they were all those that had sailed with Daenerys.  She supposed they had never seen a woman fight so well. 

“Your sister is formidable, my lady,” Missandei said, her tone clearly admiring despite being somewhat dry.  

Sansa smiled slightly before replying, “Yes.  My father encouraged her even when no one else did.  Do you have any skill with arms Missandei?”  

"None at all.  When I wore a collar to even touch a weapon was a crime punishable by death.  I did not wish to die, so I never dared to even look at one.”

“I see.  I thought perhaps in your travels with the Unsullied, one of the soldiers would have taught you.  If you wish, you might begin to train with us here.  Jon has all the women of the North learning the bow and the spear.  Some here have even chosen to take up the sword,” Sansa said, glancing away from the yard to meet the other woman’s eyes.  Missandei had stilled and was looking stiffly into the distance.  

Sansa, wondering at it, met Davos’ gaze.  He, too, had noticed the change.  He spoke into the sudden silence, “It’s me who’s needing training with the sword, Lady Sansa.  These nubs of mine aren’t too handy for swinging a sword around.”  He smiled broadly at them both, and Missandei seemed to relax.  

The three of them turned as the sound of the guards shouting a greeting rose faintly from the yard.  Within a few moments, the source of the noise revealed itself.  Jon had returned with Grey Worm, Ser Jorah, the Queen, and the Hound.  Sansa felt her stomach twist.  She had managed to avoid the Hound so far that day, although she knew from her maid that he’d come across Arya and planted himself in her path.  Then he had by all accounts called her a ‘she-wolf’ and been rewarded with a kick to the shins.  Her sister had walked off, but they’d both been seen smiling.  

In the dreary month before Jon returned and after Littlefinger had been executed, Sansa had listened to all her sister was willing to say about her life after escaping Kings Landing, and hadn’t been too shocked to hear that the Hound had treated Arya liked a walking bag of silver.  But looking at her sister’s face when she talked about him, she had been surprised to see that her sister seemed to remember the time fondly.  

It was at odds with how Sansa remembered him.  The night Stannis had attacked Kings Landing, she’d thought that he’d wanted her.  He’d looked at her like a slavering dog looks at a piece of meat.  But perhaps, she’d been wrong.  Maybe he would have seen her safely home.  It mattered not at all, she knew, as she watched him climb off his horse.  He was here now and a changed man according to Jon.  Her thoughts must have summoned him, for he looked up at that moment direct into her face.  

Sansa raised her chin as their eyes met, a strange and desperate urge to have him acknowledge her rise.  He eyed her and then bowed, before following Jon out of sight.  She thought she felt Davos’ and Missandei’s eyes on her then.  When she turned to look, however, they were deep in their own conversation.  Sansa rejoined them, only listening with half her mind.

 

* * *

 

Finally, the hours until her meeting with the queen ground to a halt.  It had been a punishing wait, unable to catch any spare moment to speak with Jon privately.  He had been pulled this way and that, by his men, by their servants, by the queen’s servants, by her sister, and even the blacksmith.  Sansa hoped that they would have time together tonight.  Her thoughts stopped as she came to the door guarded by the dark-eyed Dothraki.  They did not seem to speak the Common Tongue, so Sansa stared them down until one of the two knocked on the door.  There was an exchange and then the guard swung the door open.  

A wave of heat boiled through the doorway and Sansa waded through it taken aback.  A quick look around the room showed the queen seated next to a blazing fire.  Even seated, Daenerys dominated the room.  The sensation reminded her of Margaery and her lady mother both, somehow.  As Sansa approached, their eyes met.  It was a cautious clash, blessedly brief. The queen waved Sansa into a chair and Santa placed herself into it gently.  She took the moment to arrange her skirts about her and folded her hands in her lap before raising her head to meet the queen’s eyes again. 

She wondered how often the queen had had the chance to interact with women of her own status, and thought perhaps it was not too often. Especially considering how uncomfortable she looked.  Sansa was pleased yet again that she had learned to wear a ladies’ armor so securely that it came second nature. She smiled at the other woman and spoke, “Your Grace, thank you for this invitation. I’m sorry that my sister could not come.  She is still becoming accustomed to her duties here at Winterfell after so long away.”

That was a lie.  A bold faced one.  But the queen didn’t need to know what Arya was really doing.   

The queen replied, “Of course, Lady Sansa.  I know both you and she must be busy.  But I am glad that you came.  Jon did not speak of you often, but my Hand and my Master of Whispers did.  By all accounts you are a sweet girl and one whom I would like to know better.  Would you like some wine?"

Sansa nodded, keeping silent. She wondered what the Spider could possibly know about her.  Littlefinger surely would never have said anything about her.  Or if he had, it was a lie made to make her seem stupid, which was in her favor.  She watched as the queen stood and poured them both a cup of wine.

Sansa could not remember the last time she had wine and hoped fervently that it would not go to her head.  As the queen passed it to her she raised the cup and barely wet her lips with it before setting it down in her lap. The queen reminded standing looking at her, a tilt to her head and cup in one hand.  She took a small sip before speaking.

“You are someone that I have heard much about, as I have said.  And as I am sure that Jon has told you, I intend to become Queen of all the kingdoms. The North too. The rumors we have heard about you, that you were the one to rally the North to your brothers' cause, and the Vale as well, make me think that you are the one that we need to bring the North and the Vale to our side.Jon has convinced me that we need as many men as possible to help us win this war.  And of course, the war after it.”

Sansa rather thought that the queen was speaking the truth. Although she did wonder if the queen had any intention of keeping alive the men she won to her cause.  It would be much easier to rule if some of those unruly men were no longer around to make their displeasure known.

Sansa took another sip of the wine and spoke, “Your Grace, I was able to rally the Vale to my cause because Sweet Robin, the Lord of the Vale, is my cousin.  The lords of the Vale had been forced to sit idle during the War of the Five Kings and were already anxious to have the singers tell tales of them.  They came for glory, not for me.  But if I can do something to support you, then I will.” 

“I, too, wish to see the Lannister's removed from power. They are a vile family, although some few of them have proved themselves true," Sansa hoped that she was not being too obvious in her support of Tyrion.  But Jon had told her how there had seemed to be a chasm growing between the queen and her Lannister advisor. It seemed wise to reinforce, as she could, the Stark's faith in Tyrion Lannister.  

The other woman nodded slowly. “Yes, well I would agree. Because of the Lannisters' my family was butchered and overthrown.  But how are we to fight a battle on two fronts is a question that I asked your brother before I came here.  It seems impossible considering the size of the Night King’s army,” the queen sat finally, the cup of wine gripped tight, “He has killed one of my dragons already, one of my children." 

As she spoke the words, her grip grew more fierce and her face twisted.Sansa thought she looked as though she was grieving and tried to understand what the other woman meant by calling one of the dragons, her child.  After a few moments, she recalled the gaping wound the Lady’s death had made in her heart.  The direwolf had been her friend, closer than Jeyne could ever have been.Though she had never thought of Lady as her child, perhaps it was much the same. 

“Your Grace, I am sorry for your loss.  Although I cannot help but thank you for saving my brother.  He is well loved," Sansa looked down at her lap as she spoke.

“Yes… He is," the queen replied softly.  Her voice changed the way it had that morning when talking to Jon.  She sounded young and besotted.  It reminded Sansa of how she had felt about Joffrey.  She tried not to shudder, but it was a close thing.  She wondered for a moment if perhaps Jon’s words before he had left to go south were true.  Perhaps she did admire Cersei.  She cancelled the thought as stupid.  Cersei survived while everyone who opposed her was rotting in the ground.Admiring her didn’t mean that Sansa was going to become her, just that there was something to learn.She tried to keep that thought in mind as she spoke again.

“I hope, Your Grace, that the partnership between our two families will fulfill the oath your ancestor made mine.”  

The queen looked at her curiously before replying, “What oath?” 

“For his role in supporting the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, our ancestor Cregan Stark, was promised a princess from your house. Will that princess be you?" Sansa asked.  She tried to keep her voice light and smiled as she thought a girl might when welcoming a good-sister into her family.

The queen paused before replying, “You want me to marry the King in the North?"

Sansa let her smile widen, “He admires you.  As do I.  It not an easy thing to win the heart of a northerner, Your Grace.  And I would see my brother happy."

The other woman leaned back in her chair and took another swallow of wine.  Sansa thought her cheeks look flushed, but it was hard to tell in the firelight. 

“Perhaps we will marry.  If we do, you will be the first to know,” as she finished speaking there was a knock on the door.  Missandei walked in. 

“Your meal has arrived Your Grace, my lady.  Would you like me to bring the servants in?" Missandei asked. 

“Yes. Join us," the queen waved her advisor into the room looking pleased.  Sansa felt pleased herself.  After the disastrous news of the morning, any small victory was worth celebrating. 

 

* * *

 

After what felt like a thousand years, Sansa was able to excuse herself. The queen came to her and give her a kiss on either cheek.At the last, she lingered slightly, “I look forward to calling you sister.I always thought it would be sweet to have a sister.”

Sansa drew back and forced herself to smile. She hoped that it looked convincing, but she was so tired that she feared it was only a poor imitation.

“I wish you a good night, Your Grace,” Sansa replied. She backed away slightly and curtsied. Then she made for the door, and escaped into the cool hallway.She did not stop walking until she was out of sight of the queens’ guards.She stopped and leaned against the cool stone that lined the hallway.The cold seeped into her bones, but she welcomed the chill after the blistering heat of Daenerys’ chamber.  She knew not how long she stood there, but looked up after hearing the sharp thud of boots striking the floor.  

It was Jon.  Something of how she felt must have showed on her face or in her body because he sighed and reached out a hand to her arm and pulled her beside him.  He turned her gently and spoke, “Come on, I’ll take you back to your chambers.”  Sansa was glad of the chance to have him to herself for a few moments.   They walked together quietly and by the time they reached her door, both of them were yawning.  

Sansa smiled slightly, “Will you make it to your bed?”

“I could sleep right here,” he said, another yawn breaking up his words.  

She twisted her hands together for a moment.  “Then just sleep here.  No one will know.”

Jon’s eyes widened and then he huffed a laugh, “Everyone will know.  No one will think anything of it.  But I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

“Just come in Jon,” Sansa insisted, pushing the door open and holding it until he walked through. She closed it behind her softly and turned to find that Jon had already collapsed into one of her chairs.  

She felt a warm fondness spreading through her as she watched him remove his gloves and boots.  He looked over at her when he was done, an eyebrow raised.  

“Are you planning to watch me all night to make sure I don’t run away?” he asked, his usual sarcasm hidden beneath layers of fatigue.   

She rolled her eyes before speaking.   

“No.  I’m just pleased you’re back.  I’ll bring you a quilt,” she walked off as she was speaking, hoping that she’d be able to gather her courage to say what needed to be said.But when she returned, she saw Jon had dragged the other chair closer and put his feet atop it.His hair was loosened and lay about his face.He turned at her footsteps and smiled at her, as though she was precious to him.All thoughts of the dragons and Sam and Daenerys flew from her mind.  

Sansa knew her face had flushed.  She handed him the quilt stiffly, whispered a _goodnight_  and fled from the room.  She quickly changed into her shift and laid down on her cold sheets, thoughts chasing one another.After a few minutes, Sansa felt her heart slow down and rolled to face the window.   It was snowing.  She stared out the window, watching each flake drift toward the glass and land soft as a kiss on the stone sill.  Watching calmed her it seemed, for soon her thoughts were no longer chasing themselves.  She fell asleep, vowing to tell him tomorrow.

 


	7. Chapter 7

He was as much a fool as the rest of them. Seeing some of the hints of what would have made Rhaegar a good king in Tyrion Lannister and believing in reports before confirming them with his own eyes had gotten him into this mess.  And now he was stuck in the backwater of the kingdoms with a castle full of hidebound, suspicious Northerners.  

He’d made the mistake of placing his faith in people, once again.  And now the truth was staring him in the face, plain as the spots on a dog.  Tyrion Lannister, though a good man and a good friend, was a fool.  He ought to be dressed in motley and renamed.  Something like Wittol ought to do.  He was being a willful fool about Sansa Stark and Daenerys Targaryen, just as he’d been a willful fool about Shae.  But who could blame him?  His damnable sister had twisted him into knots since the day he’d been born. 

If precautions weren’t taken, the maid warming his bed would end just as dead as poor Shae.  Though perhaps she wouldn’t.  The maid looked like Daenerys in a certain light and had made no grand promises of love.  She simply wanted to lay with a high lord.  No whispers had reached his ears of the womenfolk in Winterfell ever boasting of laying with the King, nor his crippled brother, so the girl had to start somewhere.  

The thought occurred, had the King been a virgin before laying with Daenerys?  She seemed to have such an appetite for him that perhaps it had been so.  Some folk seemed to like that sort of thing, taking advantage of experience in the bedchamber to gain a hold on another person’s heart.  

Whatever the case, Tyrion was a fool.  He spent more time mooning after his former wife than advising his queen.  And the queen desperately needed someone’s advice.  All her talk of freeing Westeros from its mired system had slowly ceased once they arrived.  No wheel breaking was discussed.  It was always and only _bend the knee_.  It was tiresome to hear and a plan so lacking in finesse it may have well as been made by a child.   

Daenerys Targaryen had come to Westeros on the backs of the common people.  Abandoning that strategy was folly and it was no wonder that the queen had lost every battle but one.  The Dothraki would not care for she was their goddess now, in many ways.  But the Unsullied did.  And as more battles were lost and their Mother showed less and less inclination for freeing people and gave more orders to burn them, it was all but assured that the Unsullied would revolt.   

After all, they were free men now.  Surrounded by free men and women, who shouted their opinions from sunrise until sunset with no fear of reprisal.  Indeed, the King looked as harried as a fishwife trying to convince passersby to give a copper for a rotting fish.  The high lords and common people of the North still did not fully believe in the Night King.  They obeyed because they had been primed to, though whether by Littlefinger or by his pupil, it was unclear.  

And wasn’t that the best gift?  Littlefinger gone.  His network of spying mixed with his special brand of flesh dealing had been dependent on his presence.   Had the Stark girl taken over her master’s empire?  It was unlikely.  She was a lovely fool, like all the rest.  With a smidgen more honor, no doubt inherited from her father.  Whatever the case was, there was no doubt that the Hand of the Queen was right where he was most useful to her and the North.  Sniffing around her skirts like a dog in heat.   

Meanwhile, Daenerys was never going to win the Seven Kingdoms because she could not see that she needed to capture the love of the smallfolk.  Tyrion was too blinded by his pedigree to see that the strategy he’d chosen was wrong and, at the moment, too besotted to help his Queen.  So it was up to him, the lowborn mummer’s apprentice to help these inbred idiots do what their oaths called upon them to do.   

And the first step to that was to send a raven.  The Maester was in the rookery, which was a pity.  But that was easily mended.  They sat together and the Maester was courteous enough to bring him ale.  A pinch of sweetsleep in the last of the several horns they ended up sharing, and the man was snoring at his table.   

He wrote his letters quick, tucking the letters into the crow’s ankle holsters.  Picking the bird up bodily, he tossed it out the open window.  As he turned to leave, he stopped to clear away the ale and cups.  Hopefully, the sweetsleep would be enough to make the maester’s memory fogged.   

The next step was finding and watching Robert Baratheon’s lowborn son.  The forges were easy enough to find, but the issue soon became clear.  The lad was always talking to someone.  Or if he wasn’t he was locked away inside the outbuilding, shunning visitors entirely.  Interviewing those folk who interacted with the boy would have to do.   

It appeared that Gendry was a favorite of everyone.  The children, especially loved him, though he was known to tease them on occasion, he always had a kind word or a smile.  It didn’t hurt that the boy was handsome.  The tavern girl, his mother, had left little enough of herself in him, it seemed.  Other than a sense of propriety.  Just like the King, Gendry never seemed to touch the women.   

After a few days of watching, it was soon clear why that was.  Gendry had eyes for just one woman.  The lady Arya.  Whenever she appeared, it wasn’t too long before they were arguing.  And soon after that, their tongues were dancing.  The most recent time, Gendry had whispered to her, “Be my family.” 

Varys watched her maneuver herself out of the man’s arms and stare up at him.  “What?”

Gendry had looked at her from top to toe, lingering on her birdsnest hair and rucked tunic.   

“I wouldn’t dishonor you milady,” he said gruffly, “I loved you when we were children but I didn’t know how to say it.  And I was ashamed of being a low born and not having any family.” 

“Dishonor?” the lady Arya interrupted, indignant.  

He swallowed hard and rushed on before she could stop him, “You were Arya Stark of Winterfell and I was Gendry of Flea Bottom.  But I’m not that anymore.  It wouldn’t be no shame for a princess to have a bastard of Robert Baratheon as her—,” he couldn’t quite say the word husband, but the Stark girl took his meaning clear enough.   

She pressed close to him and gave him a poke in the chest.   

“You have no idea who I am now.   _I_ have no idea who I am,” she looked at him face stern, “I don’t know that I ever want to marry.  But I don’t want to marry anyone who looks at me and only sees who my ancestors were.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that!  I just meant that I was no one.  And you were someone.  I had _nothing_  to offer you, not even a family name.  Now, I at least have a name.  I’m not asking you to marry me and be my lady wife, and wear a dress, have babies and all that other shite.  I want you to be my family.  That’s all.” 

The Stark girl had looked at him for a long moment and then shook her head.  “If you knew what I had done to come back home, you wouldn’t ask me this.”  She backed away again and set about righting herself.  

Gendry waited until she was done, head low. Then he raised his face, looking stubborn.  “You’re a killer Arya Stark.  You did what you had to do to survive.  But just because you can kill, that doesn’t mean that’s all you are.”  He stopped.  Then he strode past her, making sure not to touch her on the way back to his forge.  

Varys peeled away from his vantage point before the girl could regain her senses.  It was an interesting interlude, and not a terrible outcome.   A bastard of Robert Baratheon could not do much better than a Stark of Winterfell for a bride.   

* * *

He took to haunting the rookery in the early mornings, waiting for the letter that had the seal he was looking for.  As he waited, he amused himself by looking through the letters arriving.  None were of particular interest.  Supplies and bannermen arriving.  Bannermen arriving and supplies.  The Starks had terribly bland post.  

A bit of luck chanced upon him finally.  Varys hurried away with his scrolls and found himself an emptied corridor.  

 _The Citadel is inclined to agree_ , the Archmaester wrote plainly.   _We will begin immediately.  We expect significant resistance in the Capitol._  

The other was longer and in code. 

 _First, the Targaryens.  Now the Baratheons.  Next you will tell me the Starks.  I know you tell it true, but you should know that our friends at the Iron Bank have bet on the Lannisters.  The Bank rarely declares itself, and when it does others follow.  But I shall contact the Faceless Men.  That should be enough to balance the scales._  

 _And I will do as you suggest.  It should not be hard.  The fool fell in love with her, and she abandoned him.  It will not be hard to convince him.  He’s a mercenary, after all.  Give me time.  A month.  Maybe a little more._  

Varys rolled the scrolls up and secured them tightly.  Tucking them in a sleeve, he went in search of a fire.  The word of a Baratheon restoration couldn’t fall into anyone’s hands.  

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Oh!  Your Grace, I’m sorry!” Sansa sat up quickly, her braided hair whipping around to brush her cheek.  There was the barest hint of grey light shining through her shutters.  It was morning.  That was the voice of her maid that she’d heard, though she couldn’t understand why Lyanora was calling her by that title.  She was no queen.  Then she heard the sound of a chair scraping and Jon’s soft voice replying.

“That’s alright.  You do yourself credit.  How have your lessons been?”  Sansa let herself fall back on the cushions.  It was Jon.  He must have still been in the solar and her maid had attacked the strange man sleeping in her lady’s apartments.  She was pleased to see now that Petyr was gone, Lyanora had proved herself more loyal than she’d thought possible.  

She called to her, “Lyanora, come through and leave Jon be.  He’s been too long away in the South and has forgotten how fierce we Northern women are.”

The girl came around the corner into Sansa’s bedchamber quickly, face red and blonde hair coming loose from its braid.  Sansa rolled on her side to look at her and raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t laugh, my lady,” the girl said in protest, face growing redder with every word, “the light of the fire was low and I couldn’t tell who it was.  The King has been so long away.”  

“You mean that you'd forgotten Jon’s pretty face?” Sansa said, trying to hold back a snort of laughter.  She sat up, pushing back the covers.  Her maid sighed and shook out the thick woolen dressing gown she held in her arms and held it away from her.  Sansa shucked her shift and let Lyanora drape the gown around her.  They walked together into the bathing room and Sansa stepped lightly into the steaming water, handing the gown back to her maid.   

“Will you have a bath drawn for Jon as well?” Sansa asked before Lyanora sat down to help her.  

“Oh, of course, my lady.  Shall I bring in Lady Brienne?” the girl asked, surprised.   

“If she is awake, please.” Sansa replied, leaning back to dip her hair into the water.  The girl hurried off, and Sansa closed her eyes.  Lying there in the water, Sansa let herself recall the previous evening for just a moment.  She had been with alone with Jon more times that she could count.  It made no sense having her heart thud in her chest like that at the sight of him.  

She sighed, eyes popping open and tapped her hands on the sides of the metal tub.  There were more important things to think about than finding Jon fair to look at.  Daenerys was more dangerous than she seemed.  Throughout dinner, talking with her and Missandei, Sansa had started to feel comfortable.  it had been like talking to Margery and her cousins.  The dragon queen was a girl, really.  A girl who burnt men and boys to crisps, but one who liked pretty clothing and supported her friend’s love affairs.  It had been the hardest thing about the whole evening.  Remembering that Daenerys was a danger.  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Brienne’s voice.  

“Lady Sansa?” the knight called.

“Oh come in Brienne.  You don’t have to ask every time,” Sansa raised her voice to carry into the outer room.   

“My lady, good morning,” the knight came around the corner wearing her blue and tan leathers, sword in hand.  She had probably been putting Pod through his paces again, poor lad.  Sansa smiled up at her. 

“How was Kings Landing really, Brienne?  And Ser Jaime?  And the Queen?” Sansa asked after a moment.  She’d bitten her tongue, struggling to hold back the question she truly wanted to ask.  Brienne would think her insane.  

“The capitol was as disgusting as it was when I was last there,” Brienne replied, seating herself on a stool and laying her blade to one side.  Her mouth twisted as though she could smell the city’s unique fragrance right there.   

“The Queen, truth be told, was not how I remember her.  Though you know her better than I.  I was surprised when it seemed as though she wished to negotiate.  Lord Tyrion seems to have been able to convince her to support the greater cause,” Brienne said, “As for Ser Jaime, he was as he usually is.  Bound to his sister by a chain thicker than any I have ever seen.  I had hoped he might be less devoted after the destruction of the Sept, but even that could not break them apart.” 

Sansa had started her scrubbing as her knight spoke, “I am sorry Brienne.  But perhaps, if Cersei truly does send her armies north, then you and he can be reunited.  From what you’ve observed of Daenerys, what do you think of her?”  

“She is a powerful woman, my lady, but impetuous.  And she does not seem over bothered at the idea of abandoning her allies.  She said not a word of Yara Greyjoy’s capture.  She let Theon leave for Kings Landing without even offering him assistance,” Brienne replied, sounding disgusted.  

“Yes, that’s what Jon told me,” Sansa said, thinking of Theon as she had seen him last.  He had been a ghostly version of the boy she had grown up with.  Yet, he had helped her escape at the last, and somehow made his way home.  If he could do all that, then he would let nothing get in the way of rescuing his sister.  She wished that she could help him and sighed.  

Leaning out of the tub, she grasped her gown and quickly wrapped it about herself.  Brienne had seen most of her scars, but today Sansa didn’t want to be reminded of them by having anyone’s eyes on them for too long.   

“I’d like to speak to Arya if you can find her,” Sansa asked, reaching for a towel for her hair, "And tell the steward I’d like to see him in my solar before the sun is full up.” 

Brienne nodded briefly, “Of course, my lady.”  She rose from her stool and took up her sword again. 

While she waited, Sansa dragged a comb through her hair, humming slightly to herself.  Jon was home, and Arya and Bran.  He wasn’t her brother, but that didn’t matter.  He was still Jon and whatever strange feelings her heart was harboring were nothing that she had to do anything about.  All that mattered was that they were together.  They’d rule together and protect those who depended on them.  Just as Father would’ve wanted.

* * *

The next days passed in a blur of activity.  Slowly the ravens came from their bannermen and riders too began to pour into Winterfell.  From the remote hilltop holdfasts and the cold moors that the Kingsroad wound through they came.  From all the far reaches nearest the Wall, they clambered into their King’s home.  

Most of them had never been so far south and were so wild that Sansa thought them more akin to the Free Folk than northerners sworn to House Stark.  And yet, they came prepared for battle.  Arya approved of their hardihood and mingled with them all easily.  Bran still spent as much time in the godswood as he spent amongst his people, but Sansa thought that he was becoming used to having folk about him again other than Lady Meera and Hodor and an old man in a tree.  

Being pulled in all directions by her duties was a welcome distraction, Sansa found, but she worked up the courage to steal Jon and Sam away to the godswood to give Sam the news of his father’s death.   

She shared Tyrion’s words knowing that Sam and his lord father were estranged, but was ill-prepared for Sam’s reaction.  Sam stared at her, mute, before stumbling away to sit on a root of the heart tree.  

“I don’t know what to say,” he said at first, staring down into his lap.  From the little she could see of his face, it looked blank, as though her words had left him cold.  Sam was never cold.  He was always either fiery or fearful, and Sansa had felt her heart ache for him.   

He went on, voice a slow mumble, “Mother and Talla… they’ll be…  Talla was supposed to marry Symon Fossaway.  But he’s dead now, most likely.”  There was a silence, and Sansa looked to Jon feeling worried as the silence grew.  Jon’s gaze was distant, the way it had been when they’d gone to treat with Ramsay.  Sansa edged closer to him and brushed him gently with her shoulder.  When he transferred his glare to her, Sansa nodded her head to Sam a little frantically.  Jon went to him then, kneeling before his friend.   

“Sam?” he asked, hesitant.  The other man looked up, and his eyes were rimmed with tears.  

“Dickon is dead,” Sam said, voice pitched high and strangled with it.  “He’s cooked, like a goose.” Sansa shivered, sickened.  His voice went on, leaden, “Because he wouldn’t get down on his knees, because Father wouldn’t get down on his knees, he’s dead.  He was always stupid.  He could hunt, and swing a sword, but he wouldn’t have even learned to read if I hadn’t helped him.” Sam’s voice began to hurry.   

“But he was a good lad and loyal and never hurt anyone.  He was a sweet lad—,” Sam bowed his head again and Jon wrapped his arms around him.  Sansa lingered briefly, wondering what to do and then snuck away to find her sister and brother.  When she came upon them in the hall, she could tell Bran knew why she was there.  And after she explained it in a whisper to Arya, she was gratified to see her sister react with something besides anger.  

“We’ll take care of him.  We know what it’s like to have the people we love stolen away,” she said, voice soft and as implacable as stone.  She looked strong, but then she bit her lip.  Sansa hugged her close.  When her sister squirmed, Sansa let go and pressed a kiss on Bran’s forehead and was treated to one of his rare, real smiles.   

Since then, Jon kept Sam away up in the library tower with Maester Wolkan or at the forges with Gendry.  She thought perhaps that he would come to her and tell her that they could not continue with their plan, but instead she found him more often in the queen’s company.  They looked close, which Sansa supposed was the intent.  It made her skin prickle whenever she saw them together, but she reminded herself that she had no right to feeling anything about it.  Jon was only doing what she’d asked.   

She hardly had time to think on it for soon the Dothraki and Unsullied began to pour into the castle.  The Unsullied kept to themselves, and with the help of Davos, Missandei and the Queen, the Dothraki did too.  Her staff soon got used to the unfamiliar faces, and it did not hurt that Tyrion had provisioned for Daenerys’ forces to bring their own foodstuffs.   

She stole time to confer with her sister, too.  As she’d guessed, many of their guests didn’t pay much attention to Arya.  She was the younger sister, after all, and violent besides.  But Arya had paid much attention to them.  When not cloistered with Gendry or following Jon to drill with their bannermen, she was using the mishmash Valyrian that she’d gleaned during her time in Braavos to speak to the Unsullied.    

“If the rest of the Unsullied are like them she’s brought with her, then fighting alongside them will depend on what orders she’s given,” Arya said to her one evening.  Sansa was patching her breeches, trying to reinforce the knees.  Arya looked on the work with curiosity, and Sansa hid a smile before asking, “What do you mean?” 

“Unless she starts enslaving people here in Westeros, they will never betray her.  She is their mother, and has given them new life,” Arya replied, rolling her eyes.   

“She is endangering these new lives that they have.  Can we not spread this idea to them?” Sansa asked, stabbing the cloth somewhat too hard in irritation.  She poked her knee with the needle and hissed in pain.  Arya laughed a little before replying. 

“What can we offer them that could compare?  They feel… justified in fighting for her.  They believe they’re doing the right thing,” Arya paused, and tilted her head to contemplate the ceiling before continuing, “but if what Jon says about the White Walkers is true, perhaps that will be enough for them to break with her.” 

“That isn’t what we need to have happen.  They must stay loyal enough to fight the dead for us.  They have to believe in her enough to do that,” Sansa sighed, feeling guilty, “We will not shirk our duty on the battlefield, but we cannot do it alone.  We need her dragons and every one of the Unsullied.  Though I wish that it was more of the Dothraki who were coming, not these men.  It’s not what they deserve.” 

“But the Dothraki do?” Arya scoffed. 

“No!  I just meant that they lived their entire lives as slaves, and now they’re here.  Still enslaved, even if they don’t see it that way.  At least her Dothraki riders were free men,” Sansa replied, somewhat piqued.

“Is it only the deserving who die?” Arya said in response, her voice gentled but the cadence of her voice was odd.  Sansa looked up from her patchwork curiously.  

“Well no.  I know that.  If that were so, Joffrey would’ve met his death at the Blackwater and Father and Mother would be here in this chamber with us.” 

“Then don’t moan about it,” Arya replied tartly, returned to herself.  Sansa shrugged, mimicking her sister, before looking down at her sewing. 

“Keep watching them.”

* * *

Sansa woke to knock on her door, and Lyanora asking permission to enter.  She brought with her a scroll.  Sansa pushed herself up in bed and took it, untying the ribbon and tossing it aside.  She yawned jaw-crackingly wide and terribly unladylike, although it made Lyanora smile.  Before she unrolled the scroll to read it, she asked the other woman, more nervous than she wished, “Have you seen the King this morning, Lyanora?”   

“He was up before dawn it seems milady.  I think he went to see young Clovis at the forges and then I saw him in the hall with Queen Daenerys,” the maid replied.  Sansa nodded, feeling a flash of disappointment and bent her head to read.  Bran asked her to break her fast with him in his room.   It was an unexpected invitation, and she hurried to toss back the covers and let the cool air wake her fully.   

A bath and a change of clothes were rushed through and then Sansa was hurrying through the hallways trying to avoid being seen and stopped.  She made it to Bran’s room, unaccosted, and pushed open the door.  Food sat steaming on his desk although Bran was tucked close to the fire, a bowl in his lap.   

“Good morning Sansa,” he said quietly.  He didn’t look at her.   

Sansa dithered for a moment and then decided she was too hungry to parse the meaning of his demeanor.  She leaned against the desk and took a bite out of the bowl of porridge.  After a few bites, she felt brave enough to hear whatever the news was.  She wrapped her hand around a cup of steaming cider and went to stand next to him.   

“Tell me,” she said unceremoniously.  It would be better to get it over quick.  

“I have been thinking about Sam.  He could be the Lord of Horn Hill now.  His mother and sister would welcome him home gladly.  He could take the place of the Tyrells as Warden of the West,” her brother said, musingly.  Sansa nodded slowly.  

“Of course, having Sam in such a role would give us another means of securing support for Jon,” he looked over at her, eyes searching.   

“You mean for Jon to sit on the Iron Throne?” Sansa asked, after a bewildered pause.   

“It is his birthright.  Just as Winterfell is yours,” he replied.   Sansa gulped down some cider, thinking.  It didn’t scald her, though it was nearly too warm for comfort.   

“Jon would never be happy,” Sansa started, but then stopped herself.  The common folk weren’t happy with their lot.  Was the happiness of one man really worth sacrificing the happiness of thousands?  Sansa had no doubt that Jon would do his duty as the King of the Seven Kingdoms.  The people’s lives would improve under his rule.  She sighed.  

“I hear what you’re telling me.  What else is there?” she asked.  

“Arya told me that Varys has been following Gendry.  I took a look.  He sent a letter to Pentos and another to Oldtown.  They were interesting letters.  I think we should tell Daenerys,” Bran replied.  

Sansa felt her heart speed up, “What was the content of these letters?”

“He has asked his friend Illryio to send for Daenerys’ former lover Daario Naharis, the captain of the Second Sons.  They’ll come to wipe out the Unsullied and the Dothraki and Euron Greyjoy’s fleet.  Once they’re done, the maesters will make good on their promise to put a crown on Gendry Baratheon’s head.”  

Sansa put down her cup, feeling her thoughts begin to race.  The audacity of the plot was extraordinary.  

“Gendry?  He’s a blacksmith!  He doesn’t know the first thing about ruling,” Sansa said, slowly becoming outraged.  The sheer improbability of the idea of her sister’s friend, their blacksmith becoming their king struck her as idiotic.  A few moments passed, as Sansa stood next to Bran, calming herself.  Then it came to her, as though Petyr had whispered it in her ear.   

“Varys means to rid himself of Daenerys and make a puppet king of Gendry,” Sansa said, voice becoming soft as she thought.  After a few minutes had passed, she spoke again. 

“We don’t tell Daenerys.  We tell Cersei.  If she hears about this, then her pretense of being reasonable will end.  She’ll attack and lay waste to Daenerys remaining forces.  Casterly Rock, the Stormlands, Dragonstone and the Reach will be under her control again.  Daenerys will be forced to attack Cersei.” 

Sansa walked back to the desk, thinking.  She wondered if she ought to go find Jon, but her mind shied away from the idea, still skittish from whatever it was that had overcome her.  His dark hair, limned by the firelight, and his eyes shining at her was the stuff of dreams.  Dreams of a different girl who was dead.  The Greyjoy words came unbidden.   _What is dead may never die._   She laced her hands together and tried to banish the thoughts.    

“What do you think?” Sansa asked, her voice rougher than she would have liked.   

Bran replied, softly, “It would work.  But we run the danger of Daenerys withdrawing all her forces, not just some of them.  We would be left to defend ourselves without aid.” 

“Some of our people would prefer that, no doubt.  I think it worth the risk.  I’ll speak with Jon about it,” Sansa said.  

* * *

Catching Jon as the castle and grounds continued to fill became harder, and Sansa was willing to admit to herself that she did not try too hard.  He was nearly always accompanied by the Queen, Grey Worm and Ser Davos, or Sam, who was not yet himself again.  Sansa had spoken with Gilly one morning, while waiting for Jon to return from another of his outridings.  

“Is all well Gilly?” Sansa had asked, sitting on the bed next to the fast growing little Sam.  He pushed himself up on the bed and clambered up to stand leaning on her shoulder.  Gilly sat nearby, watching them.  She frowned down at the book she had been reading laying open in her lap.  

“He is happier than when we were at Oldtown, I suppose.  But in his sleep, he cries.  I don’t know what Jon Snow has said to him, but both of them look suspicious,” Gilly transferred the frown to Sansa.  Sansa wrapped her arms around little Sam and gave him a tickle so she could take a moment to think.  Sam had not told Gilly their plans, probably thinking to protect her.  But Gilly was too observant and quick for his efforts to keep the truth from her to work.  Sansa wasn’t sure either if she wanted to trust Gilly with the whole truth.  She prevaricated.

“They are likely hatching some plot,” Sansa replied, her tone serious, “In all likelihood, it depends on us being unaware until the end.” 

Gilly squinted her eyes, surveying her.  Then she smiled.  Sansa nodded, knowing her message had been received.  She bent her head to give little Sam a kiss and then swung him down to stand on his feet.  He wobbled and grabbed her skirt.  Sansa felt herself suddenly jealous of Sam and Gilly’s family.  It should have been nothing.  She wasn’t a girl any longer, dreaming of knights and puppies and children.  The singers’ tales were all lies and would never happen for her.  She steadied him as he wobbled again and watched the toddler stumble his way over to his mother.  Gilly praised him lavishly and Sansa had to take her leave abruptly.   

She made her way to the hall, hoping that there would be some task to complete that would distract her, but for once it was quiet.  She turned away thinking of her father’s words when he’d tried to break the engagement to Joffrey.   _Brave, gentle and strong.  There were never any men like that Father.  Or none who I wasn’t a sister to._

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Bronn had taken to singing _The_ _Bear_ _and_ _the_ _Maiden_ _Fair_  somewhere after they’d been taken captive by the crannogmen and before Moat Cailin lumbered onto the horizon.  The crannogmen didn’t seem to mind, but Jaime longed to give the other man a slap on the mouth with his hand.  The golden one.  He thought the little lady Reed wouldn’t much appreciate it, considering how little she appreciated anything he did or said.  

She rather reminded him of Lady Catelyn.  Fierce eyes.  Fierce mouth.  Fierce loyalty.  Only Catelyn Stark hadn’t known how to use a sword, and Lady Reed had no trouble laying him flat in the mud with hers.  From his similar position in the mud, he had felt Bronn’s eyes stabbing at him.  Bronn had wanted to sail to White Harbor and then ride to Winterfell.  Bronn was usually right.  

As it was, the crannogmen were on their way to Winterfell too.  And so he was on his way to his original destination, only his plans had changed from offering the King in the North his sword to being forced into it.  

It was irritating, as anything having to do with the Starks always turned out to be.  They got under your skin with their talk of honor and duty until you half believed it yourself.  That was the only reason Jaime could come up with to explain why he’d been stupid enough to walk away from Cersei.  

The first few days he’d thundered away north on the Kingsroad full of fury that she’d dared to threaten him with death at the hands of that monstrosity she called Ser Gregor.  Then the fury had changed to worry.  From worry it changed to stabbing pain in his gut as he considered that this was the first time in his life that he had left Cersei intending never to go back.  

At that point, they were weeks gone from Kings Landing, and Bronn was spurring them faster every day.  It was too cold to ride slow and the Queen’s peace hadn’t reached all the realm yet.  Understandable, considering that there were two queens.  How were the peasants and the outlaws to know whose peace it was they were supposed to be enjoying?  It only made sense to continue with theft, murder, and rapine until some sort of agreement was reached.  Jaime wanted to laugh at the idiocy of it all, but held back.  It wouldn’t do to attract the attention of Lady Reed.  

After long days on the road, and nights hidden under their cloaks huddled together for warmth, the feel of the land changed.  They’d passed out of the mountainous Barrowlands.  

“We’re close,” Lady Reed declared, a smile blazing bright on her face before disappearing as quick as a lit candle extinguished into smoke.  Jaime wondered at the girls' sudden temperament changes, but agreed silently.  He remembered his first visit to Winterfell.  It had been just the same.  All of sudden the hills and rocks were replaced with rolling moors and you could feel that you had entered a different domain.  

That night, just like all the others on the road, Lady Reed’s men lit a fire and everyone huddled around it.  Jaime hunched down, arms wrapped around himself and tucked his chin into his jacket. As he berated himself, again, for setting off north with nary a fur-lined garment to be had there was a sense, barely, of something approaching him.  The hair on the back of his neck stood and Jaime whipped himself around to look out into the darkness.  

“What’s the matter with you?” Bronn called from the other side of the fire.  The others of the party looked at him curiously, waiting.  Jaime continued to look around, his muscles tensed and eyes straining to see into the dark.  After a long moment, he forced himself to relax. 

“I don’t know,” he said, quietly.  Lady Reed scoffed a laugh from where she sat ensconced in furs between her bannermen.  A silence fell.  Then it was broken by a wolf’s howl.  Jaime leapt to his feet, hand reaching for the sword that did not hang from his left hip.  He fumbled, switching hands and remembered belatedly that the crannogmen had taken his sword.  He looked to the girl, Lady Reed, who had also risen and drawn her sword.  She nodded to one of the men who tossed him his sword belt and then threw Bronn’s over to the other man.  

“Face outward!” Jaime heard Bronn tell the others, and he moved to put his back to the fire.  Another howl sounded, closer this time, and Jaime jumped.  The wolves, for it could not be dogs in this cold, were surrounding them.   _It_ _would_ _be_ _a_ _fitting_ _death,_ _for_ _a_ _wolf_ _to_ _kill_ _me_ _._ The minutes passed and the only noise was the sound of the fire consuming its fuel.  It crackled and cast its shadow too short in range to be any use.  Finally, Jaime saw one.  It was a beast half as tall as he was.   _It_ _was_ _just_ _like_ _Robb_ _Stark’s_ _wolf_ _._  That freakish direwolf that had followed him around like a lapdog.  Jaime stumbled back, nearly into the fire.  

“Summer?” he heard Lady Reed ask.  He dared not look away as the wolf edged closer.  Its muzzle was drawn back, fangs reflecting the firelight, though it wasn’t growling.  He couldn’t understand why the girl was suddenly saying the names of the seasons, but perhaps she’d lost her head from fear.  

“Summer, come!” the girl said it firmly this time, as though it was the monstrosity’s name.  The beast didn’t turn its head.  

The girl was babbling.  “What am I saying.  Not Summer.  Grey Wind was his eldest brother’s.  Shaggydog was Rickon’s.  Lady was the one who was killed.  Ghost was Jon Snow’s.  Nymeria!” she crowed it triumphantly.  The girl strode close, pushing her bannermen aside.  She put up her sword as she came, hands down by her sides.  

“You haven’t met me, but I know all about you.  Bran told me.  Do you remember him?  Bran said you belonged to Arya.  Your name is Nymeria.  She named you for the warrior, but you were always gentle.  He said that Arya would boast of you helping her pack her things and clean her room.  She would try to brush your coat and you’d run away to get dirty with Shaggydog,” she walked up to the beast’s side. 

 Jaime watched wondering as she laid a hand on the wolf’s ruff.  The wolf didn’t attack, but looked back at her, quiescent.  Jaime’s hand clenched around his sword.  These northerners were all insane.  A frog from the marshes taming a direwolf sounded like something from one the stories his nurse had told him.  

“We’re going to Winterfell.  To see Bran, and the lady Sansa, and the King, Jon Snow.  Your lady Arya will be there too.  And your brother, Ghost.  Come,” the girl implored, stroking the wolf gently.  Jaime watched the beast sit there silently for a moment and then tensed again as it padded away.  The others of its pack that had been barely visible in the firelight, melted away into the darkness.  

“You’re very brave or very stupid Lady Reed.  You remind me of another woman I know,” Jaime said, still wound tight.  The girl rewarded him with silence, turning away from him to motion her men to sit again.  

“Well, they won’t bother us again, most likely.  But let’s have a few more on watch tonight, just in case,” the girl was quiet again after that and Jaime was unsurprised to see that his sword, and Bronn’s were soon taken away and sat upon by one of her bannermen.  Soon enough, the men were falling asleep, Jaime too.  

* * *

The next morning, they were on their way before the sun was full risen, and by day’s end they were riding through the gates of Winterfell.  The lizard-lion banner gained them quick enough entry and they were met in the hall by the one of the subjects of his nightmares, Brandon Stark.  He sat, in a wheeled chair at the top of the hall, surrounded by his family.  Jaime wondered if they’d meant to greet him all together or if it was just a coincidence.  It mattered not.  The King, Ned Stark’s bastard, greeted them.  

“Lady Reed, thank you for riding all this way.  We did not think to expect you.  House Reed has given much in their service to the North, and we would not ask more of you,” the boy spoke, hardly a trace remaining of the sullen bastard Jaime remembered from that feast long ago.  Boys grew into men in the span of time since Jaime had seen Jon Snow.  

“We are honored to do our part, Your Grace,” the girl replied, “It is no hardship to serve our King.”  She smiled at him and at the two sisters.  She did not look at Bran.  

“Thank you, my lady.  Your men will be given quarters with the others who have joined us, and we will put you in the apartment you had before,” the king said, gesturing.  Servants came from their places along the wall, guiding them.  Soon enough they were alone but for Bronn and Lady Reed.  

“It seems you’ve brought us something interesting Meera,” Bran said, surprising Jaime with the depth of his voice.  He remembered him from the day of the fall, vividly.  His voice had been high and afraid, unbroken.  And he had climbed like a small monkey up to that tower room where Jaime had been taking his sister.   _Boys_ _become_ _men_ _indeed_ _._   

Meera ignored him.  “Your Grace, may I present Jaime Lannister, formerly of the Kingsguard, and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, a sellsword.”  Jaime nearly took offense at her description, but then realized that it was true.  And there was something more amusing to distract himself with.  Lady Reed and Brandon Stark were having a tiff.  He looked at them both, surreptitiously.  Lady Reed was keeping her gaze fixed on the king and his sisters.  The boy, Brandon, was looking at her, confusion clear in the tilt of his head.  

Then the king shuffled forward, out of the shadows of the fireplace and looked at him full on.  Without meaning to, Jaime took a step back.  It was as though he had gone back in time.  He remembered Lyanna Stark looking like this at Harrenhal.  Dark-haired, dark-eyed and lovely.  Rhaegar, the Crown Prince and a damned, dream-addled fool had made her the Queen of Love and Beauty.  Ned Stark had never had beauty, nor had his brothers.  They had all been hard and angular, the Starks, except Lyanna.  And now a man who looked like her was playing at being Ned Stark’s bastard.  

“…Ser Jaime.” The King in the North had been speaking to him.  

“Pardon me, Your Grace.  I could not hear a word you said,” Jaime said, trying to rally himself. 

“Why were you and this man, Ser Bronn, riding to the North?  Should you not be accompanied by your armies?  Your sister has agreed to send her forces north to fight the Night King, has she not?”  

“She did.  Then she changed her mind.  So I came,” he paused, before plunging on, “I came anyway because this is a threat that endangers us all.  And because I owe your family a debt.  I could not bring my men to discharge it, so I had to at least bring myself.” 

“You can never repay the debt you owe us,” the younger sister spoke, harshly, “You pushed our brother from a window.  You meant to kill him.  Do you think that because you sent us Brienne that we will forgive you?”

“Arya, please,” Brandon said, eyes finally moving away from Meera.  Jaime felt them assess him, cool and dispassionate.  “He can repay us in all kinds of ways, although I don’t think he’ll be much use on the field of battle, do you?”  He looked over at his brother.  

“The Kingslayer was well known for his prowess with a sword.  He might could be of some use still.  Even with his off hand,” the king replied.

“For now, he is a guest under guard.  We will discuss the matter more in the morning.”  With that, he walked away.  It was an abrupt dismissal and not smoothed over by either of the sisters.  The younger one stalked off after her brother, leaving him with the boy he’d tried to kill for Cersei’s sake and his brother’s wife.  

“You and Ser Bronn will room together, my lord.  Space is limited just now.  I’m sure you understand.  Meera, would you escort them to the guest hall before you find your bed?  My steward is still there making arrangements.  He will be able to direct them.”

“Certainly, my lady.  I wish you a good night,”  Lady Reed’s gaze flickered to Bran before she turned and led the way out of the hall.  Bronn started off after her, whistling.  Jaime followed, his steps slow. 

* * *

“Get up,” a hand grasped his shoulder and gave him a violent shake.  “Come on, get up,” the voice hissed at him.  

Jaime peeled his eyes open, exhaustion dragging at him.  He’d spent more time than he wished thinking about Robert’s war before finally falling asleep.  The room was still dark, though light shone around the edges of the shutter.  He craned his head up at the giant standing over him and realized that the giant was the wench, Brienne.  

“What do you want?” Jaime dropped his head back onto the pillow.  A bed had never been so decadent.  

“Lady Sansa wishes to speak to you.  You need to get up,” she replied, voice stern.  

“Aren’t you glad at all to see me?” Jaime asked by way of reply.  “The thought of you was all that kept me warm on the road.”

As expected, she huffed a laugh, “Are you getting up or not?”

He sat up slowly, every bone aching.  “Take me to her.”  A few minutes were spent on making himself presentable and then Brienne was escorting him to the family rooms. 

“Tell me, why are you here?  The last I saw you, you were taking Riverrun from its rightful family and giving it to the Freys,” she asked, the tightly wound sound of her voice betraying the calm look on her face.  

He waited to reply until she looked at him, “I came because of you.  You’re always trying to force me to listen to my better nature.  So that’s what I’m trying to do.  I walked away from Cersei and—,” he cut himself off, not wanting to reveal to the wench what had transpired once again between him and Cersei.  

She looked at him, as though evaluating the truth of his words.  Then she nodded sharply.  

“Good.  Then you and my lady should have a productive talk.  And then perhaps you and I might meet in the training yard?” Brienne was trying to hide a smile, keeping her face somewhat averted, but Jaime noticed.  It was a pretty smile. 

“As long as I don’t manage to make her want to cut off my head.”

With that, they had arrived.  Jaime looked at Brienne who gave him an encouraging nod and left him at the door.  He knocked, having never been a coward and not about to start now out of fear of Sansa Stark.  She was nothing compared to Cersei.  

A light voice called him to enter and Jaime swung the door inward and walked through.  The room was bright, the shutters had been thrown wide and a snow was falling thick on the other side of the glass.  He shivered, glad suddenly of the speed of the ride north.  

“Are you cold my lord?” the girl asked, voice as empty as he had heard it sound in King’s Lansing.  

“No Lady Sansa.  Just rejoicing that I managed to arrive before another snow storm,” he replied.  

“Oh this isn’t a storm.  It’ll be through shortly,” she smiled at him, and it reminded him of the wolf Nymeria.  “You are a Southron, aren’t you.”

“Yes, I do have that pleasure,” he said, looking at her more closely than he’d done before.  Sansa Stark was a woman now, that much was obvious.  It struck him as odd suddenly that Lady Stark had brought him into her chambers, without anyone as chaperone.  Was she so fearless?   

“I wished to thank you, Ser Jaime, for fulfilling your promise to my mother.   Lady Brienne has been a staunch protector.”  Jaime nodded, still pondering just what he was doing in her rooms.  Was the bastard lurking somewhere waiting to run him through at the slightest offense?  He almost missed her next words.  

“Yet, sending another in your stead to protect myself and my sister still does not discharge your attempt to murder my brother.  Would you not agree?” 

Jaime snapped back, paying attention all of a sudden, “I think that considering what happened by your own bannermen’s command,” he raised his right arm and waved it at her, “my actions toward your brother would be moot.”  

She had not invited him to sit, but Jaime walked around the spare chair and dropped himself into it anyway.  She didn’t react, instead letting a silence develop.  After a while, she broke it.  

“You are an anointed knight.  Pledged to defend the weak.  Yet you say your attempted murder of a child is somehow cancelled by your loss of a hand.  Perhaps my sister is right after all.   We ought to take your head,” she replied.  Her posture hadn’t changed throughout, and her voice was flat.  

Jaime held back a smart retort, saying shortly, “I disagree.  I like my head where it is.  But I am here, regardless, to offer myself in service to your King in the North to make amends for my sister’s change of heart.”

“Nothing and no one can make amends for you or your sister, ser.  But we of the North are accustomed to disappointment.  Despite your sister’s broken oath, the North is prepared to sue for peace.  All we require is a token of her good faith,” she said, still dispassionate.  

“What sort of token?” Jaime asked, warily.  He felt suddenly as tense as he had last night faced with the wolves.   

“We wish for the safe return of Yara Greyjoy.  She will do no harm to her uncle’s rule for we shall keep her here at Winterfell,” she said, surprising him.  

 “And then leave the North in peace?  Leave you to fight the Night King on your own?  What kind of fool request is this?” Jaime asked.  

“Lady Yara’s brother was a true friend to our family, in the end, and we wish to do what we can for his sister.  The King did not expect your sister’s support against the Night King, in truth.  And he does not intend to ask for it now,” she surveyed him, critically, “Is this request something that you feel comfortable relaying to your sister?”

“It is a stupid request, my lady,” Jaime replied, sarcastically.  “I cannot help but wonder what you mean to provide in return for my sister pardoning and releasing a traitor to the throne.”  The girl did not react to his words, instead gently lacing her fingers together in her lap before replying.

“The Starks have much to offer your sister, ser.  The King recognizes that your sister has taken the throne by right of conquest.  He is prepared to end the enmity between our families by offering to the Queen his hand in marriage,” Jaime spluttered, unsure of what words he wanted to say to reject the idea, but the girl talked over him easily.  “His hand in marriage and the most important piece of news that the Queen could desire." 

She paused, waiting for him.  He nodded, jerkily, in response.  “Daenerys Targaryen prepares for war on two fronts.  She intends to help us to defeat the Night King with her dragons, but she will also command an attack on Kings Landing with her friends from across the Narrow Sea.  We have no wish for another foreign army come to devastate the realm.  Your sister cannot wish such a thing either, no matter how little she cares for the common folk.”

Jaime leaned over his knees, staring at the Stark girl.  It was difficult to understand what he was hearing.  Was this the little fool his brother had married?  “You are a surprise Lady Sansa.  I cannot quite believe that you managed to hide such a mind from my sister all those years.”

The girl didn’t respond, but thought he glimpsed the hint of a smile before it was gone.  

“You seem to have hidden well your own surprises.  Never in a thousand years would we have guessed that you would come riding to the North alone but for your Ser Bronn.  It was what made us decide to give you this offer,” she said.  “Of course, the offer must be accepted in full.  If we determine that your sister has not released the lady Yara and intends to reject this offer of marriage, then we will, of course, support all efforts to remove her from the throne.”  

Jaime thought he recognized that game that was being played and tried to imagine what his father or Tyrion or even yet Bronn might say.  “Why would my sister marry a bastard?  Even Ned Stark’s bastard?”  

Unexpectedly, the girl didn’t rage at him.  She gave him another of her chill glances and replied, “My King is as much a son of Ned Stark as Bran is.  Your sister has met him and by all accounts recognized that fact in him immediately.  Regardless of who his mother was, he is the blood of Winterfell.”

Jaime swallowed against a sudden dryness in his mouth.  He had tried, with some success, to forget Robert and Lyanna and Rhaegar while listening to the Stark girl.  But the offer she laid before him was too strange. 

She was a trueborn daughter of Catelyn Stark, and that woman had hated her husband’s bastard.  He would give his left hand as surety for it.  How could the woman’s own daughter sit there bold as Bronn and attempt to arrange a marriage for Jon Snow to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?  But she sat there, as beautiful and as placid as a lake, unhurriedly pursuing a contract for her king.  Was there more to the bastard’s story than had been made known? 

Sansa spoke, interrupting his thoughts, “Queens need heirs, do they not, Ser Jaime?  And all that remains of Lannister blood is yourself, Lord Tyrion, and your sister the Queen.  It would be a terrible blow to the realm if we were to lose yet another great family.” 

It was said with as much emphasis as anything else in that strange conversation, but Jaime grew irritated anyway.   He governed himself enough to nod, and rose when she did.  The offer was going to be made, for marriage, peace, and an end to foreign invaders, no matter what he said.  He wondered, turning to leave the room, if his sister would even let him through the gates.  Or if she would have him killed as soon as he stepped foot in her domain.


	10. Chapter 10

She lay across him, and drew the fingers of her hand across the plane of his arm.  She could feel his heart thundering beneath her ear.  A smile drew itself across her face.  Her wolf was always so quiet.  Even during their lovemaking, she sometimes was not sure if his mind was not elsewhere.  But here at least was a sign.  His heart was here with her, even if his mind lingered on the Night King.  

She lifted her head and rested her chin upon him. 

“I hadn’t thought to see you this evening my lord. You’ve been hiding from me,” she smiled to soften the words.  

He wrapped an arm around her, gently, in reply.  “Never.  But the Winter’s town fortifications needed my attention, and there were more arrivals from the mountain clans.  And the Free Folk...,” she laid a finger over his lips, smile widening.  

“It was a jest.  I know you are busy.  Ser Jorah tells me of all you are doing,” she said and placed a kiss atop the scar over his heart.  She raised her eyes to his and was gratified when he shifted to capture her lips with his.  One kiss became another and soon she thought they might try again for the babe Jon had thought she still might be able to have.  

A knock sounded on the door, jolting them both.  Jon leapt from her bed, naked, and stalked to the door.  “Who is it?” he called, one hand reaching for his sword.   

“It is Missandei, my lord.  May I enter?”  Daenerys pushed herself up, frustrated.  She nodded to Jon and wrapped herself with a dressing gown.  He hauled on his breeches and jerkin before opening the door.  

Missandei entered and came to the edge of the bed, head bowed.  

“My apologies Your Grace.  Lord Varys has asked me to give you this news,” Missandei said.  She glanced up and met Daenerys eyes.  Daenerys knew that look and felt herself stiffen with wariness.   

“What is it?” Daenerys asked. 

“Lord Tyrion’s brother Jaime Lannister has been seen in the castle, Your Grace,” Missandei replied.  “He seems to be under guard, but Lord Varys is concerned that—,” Daenerys lifted a hand and Missandei closed her mouth.  

Looking at Jon, she asked, “Why was I not informed of the Kingslayer’s presence?  And where is the army his sister promised to send to our aid?”

Daenerys watched him closely, all tenderness swept away at this evidence of deceit.  Waiting for Jon to speak, she stood abruptly from the bed and paced closer to him.  “Were you going to hide this from me?”

He sighed before responding, “He rode north to bring us word of his sister’s betrayal.  I know how you feel about him, but a man who is willing to face death in order to bring word of the truth, deserves better than a quick death.  He deserves to be heard.”  He rested a hand on her arm through the gown.  His hands were chill, but his eyes seemed warm.  She frowned, wavering.  

“And you thought I would, what?  Demand he be fed to my dragons?  You think so little of my self-control?”

“My Queen, he killed your father.  If the man who killed my father was in front of me, his head would be rolling on the floor.  But the man who killed my father was a nobody.  The Kingslayer is Cersei Lannister’s twin, the father of her children. He knows her mind better than anyone else.”

Daenerys turned away from him, frustration near to boiling over.   What did it matter if his words rang true?  He’d still lied about something important.  

“Your Grace, if I may?” Missandei asked.  Daenerys gave her a stiff nod, keeping her back to Jon.   

“This Kingslayer has come after giving his word to bring the Lannister forces to the aid of the North.  It strikes me as strange that he should do so, knowing that this action might lead to his death.  What is there to gain from doing such a thing?”

Daenerys clenched her hands together, “Sympathy.  Perhaps he thinks to save himself and turn our anger toward his sister.”

“That is possible, Your Grace.  Yet, Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys have never spoken ill of the Kingslayer’s courage,” Missandei replied slowly.  

Daenerys tossed up her hands, and turned slightly to Jon.  “You clearly have your own interpretation of why the Kingslayer has come.”

Jon laid aside his sword, peering at her as he did so.  He edged closer slowly laying a hand on her shoulders.  “I was going to tell you Your Grace.  But we became distracted,” he smiled at her for a moment and Daenerys felt herself start to smile in return before she quashed it.  

“In the morning, you’ll interrogate the Kingslayer yourself is what I was going to tell you.  There must be a reason why he’s come, and we must find out what it is.  Anything he can tell us may make the difference in winning your throne,” he paused, brow crinkling.  

Before he could go on, Daenerys interrupted him, “Though I would disagree, I am willing to be proven wrong.”  She smiled at him, relenting.  “Just don’t do this again.  I hate to be lied to Jon, even if it was well-meant.”  

“I won’t do it again Your Grace,” he squeezed her shoulders slightly, eyes flicking down to her lips for a moment before flicking up to meet hers.  

Daenerys turned away from him slightly and raised an eyebrow at Missandei.  The other nodded her head and withdrew.  As the door closed behind her, Daenerys raised her eyes to look at Jon again.  

“I think I deserve an apology for being lied to, don’t you?” she asked.  

* * *

 

The chill woke her, rather than sunlight.  Forcing her eyes open, Daenerys peered up at the ceiling for a moment.  Jon was up before her, as usual.  She had wondered where he went in the mornings, so early that his spot in her bed was cold by the time she awoke.  She had asked her spymaster for answer, assuming he of all people would know.  

To her surprise, the Spider had professed not to know.  Not Tyrion, nor Missandei or Grey Worm, or even her bear, Jorah, could tell her.  Finally, at table one morning, while Jon was away, she’d asked Lady Sansa.  The girl’s bright blue eyes had leapt from the contemplation of the hall to clash with hers.  

“You should know better than I, Your Grace, who my brother spends his days with,” the girl smiled briefly.  

“I suppose that would be true, if we were still on Dragonstone.  Here, he disappears without a trace or word of warning, unless we have set a time to meet.  Is this not strange to you?”

“In truth, no.  If he’s not to be found within the walls of Winterfell and he hasn’t ridden out, that simply means he’s gone walking outside the walls to check on our people,” Sansa replied.  

Jon striding in at that moment had shown the truth of Sansa’s words.  The men at arms had pushed open the doors and Jon had come into the hall slapping the dusty snow from his shoulders and hair followed by some of the Wildings.  

Since then, she had let go of the lingering doubts she’d held about Jon and his family.  Winterfell was his home. It was only right that he devote his time to its people. 

Yet still it was an adjustment, living in this place.  On Dragonstone, at first, she had felt triumphant.  Proud even, that the least likely Targaryen and the last had been the one to make it back to Westeros.  But the defeats in the field had soured her on Dragonstone.  More and more, it had felt like living in that monstrous pyramid in Meereen.  Unable to move forward and achieve her dream.  

Jon had changed all that.  By forcing her out of the walls of Dragonstone to the far North, he’d shown her just what it would take to truly rule Westeros.  It was nothing like Meereen, or Astapor, or Yunkai, or even Quarth.  Westeros would take all of her might to conquer it and even then who was to know when the battles might end.  But that wasn’t a bother.   Fighting was what she did best.  

Rolling out of bed, she shivered as the chill struck her.  The fire had gone low.  She hurried to a trunk and pulled out her leathers.  She had seen her father’s murderer, at long last, in the dragon pit in Kings Landing.  She had foregone revenge then, thanks to Jon, and now she was like to forego it again because of him.  Perhaps Tyrion has been right, and she did find herself in love with him.  

Mulling that over, she found herself comparing Jon to Daario.  Jon had none of his swagger, and but he still made stomach flutter in the same way.  Jon had the advantage of being sweet and kind, and he made her feel warm.  The way she had with Drogo.  Although to tell it true, Drogo had not been sweet or kind, but he had been devoted in his own way.   Jon was the same. 

A knock interrupted her thoughts and then Tyrion was announcing himself.  At her word, he pushed open the chamber door.  

“Your Grace, Missandei tells me we’re to meet my brother again this morning.  Is this the case?”

“It is,” she replied, briefly.  She glanced at him for a moment and then turned away to place Drogo’s chain around her neck.  It had been more months than she cared to recall since she had last worn it.  It laid heavy upon her breast, as if trying to lay a claim upon her heart.

“What is it that you wish to accomplish during this interview Your Grace?  Is it an interrogation?  If that’s the case, give my brother to Varys, and he’ll tell us everything we need to know.  I’ve seen him work.  He makes more than little birds sing.”

Daenerys scoffed a laugh.  “Varys has his talents, but I don’t need the man who killed my father turned into a blubbering mess.  I need him whole.  You and I, Jon and my bear will speak with your brother and get to the bottom of his appearance here in Winterfell,” she finished, keeping her voice sweet with an effort.  

She walked past him, and pulled the door open wide.  Ser Jorah stood beyond, facing out toward the hallway.  Hearing the rush of air, he turned to face inward and smiled at her.  She returned it, and as he shifted to make way for her, strode past him.   Her guards took a few long steps to flank her sides, and then settled in.  She could hear Tyrion’s sigh at the pace, but pushed along anyway.  It was too cold in the halls to walk any slower.  

Sweeping past her Dothraki and her Unsullied who lined the halls doing some task or another, she marveled yet again at the Stark sisters’ ability to run the castle.  None of her riders was ever idle.  As soon as this rope’s twisting had been finished or jar of tar was topped off, another task presented itself.  The servants and common folk were just as busy.  And the sisters still found time to sit with her and talk.  It was something she hadn’t realized that she’d wanted.  Missandei would always be her friend and advisor, but her world revolved on two axis— her service to her queen’s rule and her lover, Grey Worm.  

The Stark sisters reminded her of the Sand Snakes and Lady Olenna and Yara Greyjoy.  Even Cersei had intrigued her.  She could see why she ruled even after the death of her children.  She wondered if her mother had been of the same caliber.  Before too long the door of Jon’s solar was before her.  

The thick door was pressed solidly shut and no voices filtered through to the hall.  Daenerys hesitated the briefest moment and then nodded to her bear.  He raised his fist and pounded on the door once.  It swung open almost immediately.  Jorah walked through first, his head swiveling back and forth once.  Then he gestured her through.  

Through the door, she could see the Kingslayer sitting, hands tied before him.  Jon’s younger brother sat close by the other man.  Jon stood near the windows and Daenerys saw that it was the smuggler, Davos, who had opened the door.  

Daenerys hid her surprise.  Perhaps Jon was concerned about having too many witnesses to whatever the Lannister was about to say.  She watched the man raise his head as she approached, golden hair glinting in the light.  He peered at her, looking almost bored, for a long moment before speaking.  

“Your Grace, you are as beautiful as your mother ever was,” he said, and Daenerys jerked herself back a step.  Viserys had rarely spoken of their mother, except to rehash the shame of having to sell her crown.  This man had known her mother.   Not even Ser Barristan had spoken of her.  His stories were always of Rhaegar.  She tried to calm herself and let herself step closer to him again.  

“I am still somewhat unfamiliar with the customs of Westeros, but even I know it is considered rude to greet the daughter of the family you helped murder with platitudes about her beauty.”

“An apology for stabbing Aerys in the back would have been a lie.  But your mother...,” he trailed off for a moment.  “I would’ve rather been a Queensgard than a Kingsguard, most days.  I’m glad to see she survives in you, even if it is only in looks,” he said.  He looked as if he meant it.  

Dany didn’t know what to make of it.  The man before her was not the ogre of her dreams.  Nor the stolid knight protecting his sister’s claim to the throne.  He seemed sad somehow.  Her stomach twisted.  She’d wanted to feel triumphant.  Having him in her power ought to have been a victory.  

She glanced at Tyrion, who was staring with determination toward the wall away from her.   He had been right this time, to suggest that Varys should interrogate him.  But it was too late to change her mind.  She settled herself to making the best of it.

“Then other than to remind me of my mother’s death, why have you come Ser Jaime?”

“I thought for some reason that I should offer my sword to your noble cause.  It seemed to me that I couldn’t leave the family honor to my little brother,” he said, a tilt of his lips belying the seriousness of the words.  

Ser Jorah cut him off before he could continue, “So your sudden appearance was meant to salvage your honor?  Nothing more?  Your sister hasn’t sent you here as an assassin?”

The other man laughed.  It rang through the room, echoing in the small chamber.  Dany saw Brandon, shift slightly in his chair and raise his eyes from the fire to look at them all for the first time.  

“He’s a terrible swordsman now, Your Grace.  As an assassin, he’s a poor choice.  Unless he catches you at a window,” the boy said, his low voice cut through Ser Jaime’s laughter smoothly and somewhat abruptly the older man’s laughing stopped.  

A silence fell.  Daenerys hadn’t heard yet what had caused Jon’s brother to be crippled, but it seemed clear that Jaime Lannister had played a part in it.  It was no wonder that Jon had brought his brother to this meeting.  She kept the smile off her face but she was secretly proud of Jon’s cunning.  

“I am no assassin, Ser...” the Kingslayer replied.  

“Jorah Mormont,” he replied.  The other man responded with a snort and a raised eyebrow before continuing.  

“My sister refused to allow the Lannister forces North.  She broke the truce that you all had bargained for, but she does not speak for me.  So here I am.  I didn’t bother to try to convince the rest of the army because she would’ve found a way to stop me.”

“This is the same army you led to victory against the Tully’s and the Tyrell’s.  Why wouldn’t they follow you?” Jorah asked, voice cutting.  

“Your Queen there burnt most of those men on the field outside Kings Landing.  The men who knew me are dead and those left are mostly the bannermen to Highgarden.”  

“So are we going to talk much longer or are you going to burn me too?”

Daenerys took a breath to reply, unsure of how she would answer.  Words crowded themselves on her tongue fighting to be voiced first.  When she finally opened her mouth, what came out surprised her.  

“I have no intention of burning you Ser.  You will be of more use to me alive than dead,” she said the words firmly, as though she had intended to say them all along.  And perhaps she had.  Because here was someone who knew her mother.  Who had wished to serve her mother. 

She saw Tyrion approach to stand at her side.  He looked up at her, eyes crinkled into a smile.  He had been worried, which she could forgive.  Not every brother was like Viserys.  She nodded at him and then faced the Kingslayer again. 

“So tell me of Kings Landing Ser Jaime,” she began.  

* * *

 

The interview had dragged on long, but Jon had been right.  Jaime Lannister knew his sister’s mind.  She was devious and cruel.  Ruthless and clever.  She loved her children.  He may as well have been describing herself.  Though Cersei had no care for the people that she ruled, Dany reminded herself.  She craved power and did not much care for those underfoot. 

It had been grueling, but worth every moment to hear him describe in almost loving detail the Red Keep and Maegor’s holdfast.  With every word she felt a hunger grow.  The Iron Throne seemed closer than it ever had before with every word he spoke.  Tyrion had stopped her at one point to allow his brother to eat and drink.  She had allowed it grudgingly and then realized that her throat was as dry as the Red Waste outside Quarth.  

Jon had put a small cup of wine into her hand and she had drunk it down in one gulp.  She remembered that he’d smiled down at her before fading into background of the room again.  

Now she was returned to her chambers, but felt her excitement as a fluttering in her limbs that would not let her rest.  She strode around the room as Jorah built up the fire for her again.  

When it was blazing he stepped back and hooked his thumbs on his sword belt.  She knew from long experience what would be next out of his mouth.  

“My Queen, do not be hasty.  Even though Ser Jaime says he’s given us all he knows about his sister’s plans, we dare not trust his word.”  His face was apologetic, but his voice was as gruff as always.  

“No doubt she’ll hear soon know where her brother has come and then will make changes to everything he’s told us,” he said. 

“Thank you Jorah.  I know.  But it’s finally within my reach.  If we were not committed here to fighting the Night King, I would be already marching our army down to Kings Landing.  I would be atop Drogon now,” she clasped her hands together, feeling the rush of blood in her cheeks and wanting to shout with joy.  

She had compromised her goal to save Jon as the North and here was her reward.  The man who knew her enemy best had all but fallen into her lap.  She tried to picture it in her mind.  The dragon skulls of her forebears decorating the court once more.  Her mother’s crown reforged.  Black and red dragon banners hanging from the rafters and the screech and roar of her children overhead.  It was so close she could taste it.  

She pressed a hand over Drogo’s necklace and let herself remember him for a moment.  He had not been able to keep his promise.  But she had nearly achieved it for them both.  

“Daenerys...” Jorah said, imploringly.  

She looked up at him, surprised to hear him use her name.  It was the first time since he had returned.   A sign of the changed relationship between them, she supposed.  

“If there is anyone who is meant to rule, it is you.  I have loved you and believed in you and have always given you my counsel.  Hear me now.  You and I have both seen this thing beyond the wall.  It is coming for us here.  It killed Viserion…  I do not see how we can prevail.”

Daenerys smiled up at him, serenely, “As far as we have come together, now is when you begin to doubt?Jorah, everything we have gone through was to prepare us for this moment.Every man you warned me against was so that when I met the right man, I would know it.Every defeat and betrayal and setback has armed me for this very battle.And when I defeat this Night King and turn my armies toward the South, my brother’s words will finally come true.The common people will rise for us and the high lords, every one.”


	11. Chapter 11

She tucked herself into the space between the branches.  They were more akin to cudgels than proper tree branches, which was a comforting feeling.  She was safe and her home was returned to her, even if the only place she could be alone was in the crypts or in the godswood.  All the guests packing into the castle seemed to have made a rule amongst themselves to leave the royal family at least two places to call their own.  

That those places were either a place to commune with the gods or honor the dead was something that seemed right somehow.  Her brother Robb and his wolf Grey Wind were legends, a tale to frighten the children with when they disobeyed.  Jon was both the greatest swordsman the North had ever seen and had died and come back to life to save the North from the Boltons.

And since neither Arya nor Bran was ordinary, it was fitting that she, at least, was normal.  Although perhaps if Lady hadn’t been killed she would have been more like them.  Maybe she would have been stronger, if she’d had her wolf alive somewhere in the Riverlands too.  Even if she’d still been trapped in Kings Landing, with Joffrey and all the rest, it might have been better if Lady had been alive.

She drew her cloak about herself and forced herself to stop.  The thoughts were stupid and worse, they were pointless.  She tilted her head upward and sucked in mouthful of air.   It was cold enough to make her teeth hurt, but Sansa welcomed the chill.  It was better by far to be out in the cold than inside and burning with Daenerys.  

As though her thoughts had summoned him, Jon appeared.  The little pool and the boulders that lay under the snow he wound through slowly, eyes upon her all the while.   

When he reached her, he held up a hand.  She tilted her head, curious, but laid her hand in his and let him tug her away from the embrace of the tree until they sat side by side on a root.  She peeked at him from the corner of her eye, feeling shy.  They hadn’t spoken much privately, these few weeks since he’d been home.  Not since she’d run away from him in her chambers, had they been this close.    

Sometimes, since Jon had come back she’d wondered if this was what marriage had been like for her lady mother.  Father always off doing something and pulled away by his men or the children whenever he did come back.  Hurried conferences to discuss their bannermen or the household.  But Mother’s life had crossed with Father’s at the end of the day when they retired to their chambers.  More often than not Jon was with Daenerys from dinner until dawn.  

Sansa was not lonely, not with Tyrion and Varys and all the rest to contend with, but she missed the time they had spent together at Castle Black and on the road.  She missed the hours they had spent remaking Winterfell together.  Sitting beside him again was sweet.  

Watching him and sitting close as they were, she could tell when he had relaxed.  That faraway look to his eyes was gone and replaced by the warmth she knew.  Arya had called it his Lord’s face, when they had watched Jon speak to some of their bannermen.  It was wiped away, and the lines of his brow were flat for once.  

“I’ve neglected you,” he said, suddenly.  He leaned toward her slightly and bumped her shoulder with his.  

“You’ve been doing as I asked.  I don’t begrudge you that.  You’re doing better than I’d hoped.  She did not even make much of a fuss about Ser Jaime,” Sansa replied, trying to be generous.   

“Well that was easy.  I’ve been telling her about the kind of leader Robb was and... Father.  Tyrion helped in the end too.   He reminded her of some talk they’d had about changing sides.  It was enough,” he said, easily.   

He fell silent again.  Sansa glanced at him, unsure.  

“You came to the godswood at this hour of the morning to apologize for neglecting me?  What else did you want to say?  Is there some news?” Sansa asked, cautious but certain that he had not come just to see how she fared.  

He sighed.  “Were you going to tell me that I was suddenly offering marriage to Cersei?  I let you handle the Kingslayer because you asked to, but why have I found out from Bran that we are proposing an alliance with the South?  All the realm knows me for a bastard,” he paused, his mouth twisting, “And what our bannermen will think when they come to know of it is clear enough.  They’ll mutiny, and we’d deserve it.  The Lannisters didn’t just kill Starks, Sansa.”

Sansa inhaled sharply, saying, “Do you think I don’t know that?  But while you fight the Night King, I must look to the South.  And to win over Cersei, we must play her game.  Must we go through this again?”

Jon pulled his hand away and stood.  He paced a few steps away before returning to stand before her.  “No, we don’t need to argue about this again.  I only mean to say that we are treading on dangerous ground, Sansa.  We cannot take a step like this so lightly.  If it gets out—,” he trailed off.

Sansa replied with care, “Jon we have the chance to ensure that people like Cersei and Littlefinger and Joffrey never come to rule again. We must take it.”

Jon stared at her for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, abruptly, he replied, “I have experienced evil and hatred in many forms since I left Winterfell.  There is no defeating these things, Sansa.”

“Of course not.  But ought we not try?  We have power now.  While we defeat the White Walkers and the Night King, shouldn’t we look to see how else we might serve our people?  All our living people?” she used his words deliberately and didn’t avert her eyes when his brows lowered.  

“We grab more power, and then what?  What if our family becomes like all the others?  What if we win and then we forget in ten years or a hundred what we had fought for?” Jon said.   

“If we do not reach for power in this moment, power will remain where it has.  In the hands of the insane or the depraved,” Sansa felt her cheeks heating and looked down, trying to draw in a calming breath.  It felt ragged instead of smooth.  

She glared up at him after a moment.  It was so like him to assume the worst.  “Do you even now think that I am trying to undermine you?  That I want power like Cersei does?  Do you know anything Jon?” she asked.  She could feel her anger and disappointment like a fist buried in her belly.  When Jon laughed suddenly, Sansa nearly jumped in surprise.

“I know some things, yes,” the tension melted from him and he looked peaceable once more.  He sat beside her again.  “I know you Sansa Stark.  I know why you play your pieces as you do.  You are suited for this game, but it is hard for me to stomach.  And if I feel like this, then how do you think our bannermen will react when they discover it?” 

“We'll convince them.  I'll convince them!" She held herself away from him, stiffly, feeling the blood pounding in her ears.  She struggled not to let the next words fall from her lips, but felt them boiling over, despite her, "You're still accusing me of being less than honorable, and if that's the case, why are you doing as I ask?  Knowing me, as you say you do?” Sansa asked. “When you lay with her, is it hard then too?  Is it difficult to do as I say when you kiss her and hold her hand?”

Jon dropped his eyes from hers and looked away.  “When I’m with Daenerys, I feel as though my heart is going to pound out of my chest.  I’m afraid she’ll know that I’m lying.  That I don’t love her.  And even though she is beautiful, all I can think about it was she said to me after she defeated Cersei’s forces in the field.”

“She said ‘Sometimes strength is terrible.’  I didn’t know that she was returning from murdering Sam’s brother,” Jon hunched, voice becoming rough.  “When I hear her talk, I imagine her burning them.  When I kiss her, I remember that my father was her brother.   I’m just as terrible as she is.  We are just as terrible as she is.”

“Then if we are so terrible Jon, why are we striving at all?  Why are you even listening to me?” Sansa asked, incredulous.

“You know why I listen to you,” he looked to her again and took her hands in his.  She stared at him, before replying. 

“No I don’t.  You think that I’m evil.  That I’m just like Littlefinger,” Sansa said, voice trembling.  He interrupted before she could go on, “Sansa, I —,” he paused, sighing, “You’re the smartest person I know, and you have a good heart.  You take no joy in the things you do.  No more than I take joy in lying to women and killing men.  But we have done terrible things.  So has Arya.  So has Bran, even.  We will be judged for them.”

“You told me that you were dead Jon, and when you were dead there was nothing on the other side.  How does nothingness equate to judgement?  If the Red Woman hadn’t brought you back, none of the people who have pledged themselves to us would have been safe.  You were brought back for a reason!  This is that reason.  We have the ability to help, and so we have the responsibility to help,” Sansa watched him shake his head.  

She wanted to shake him, “Jon, Ser Jaime is away sailing to White Harbor, taking his sister our offer.  How are we to retrieve him?  Send a raven to Lord Manderly and tell him to put Ser Jaime in a cell?”  He tightened his hands on hers in response and shook his head again. 

“I am committed.  But you must tell me these things Sansa,” he said.  “Because if we do not take time to judge ourselves and ensure we are not going too far, then we'll be dead.” 

He raised a hand to her face and brought her forehead to meet his.  “After everything we’ve done together, you should know me.  You should know that I love you, sweet girl.  I would do anything to keep you safe.  I am afraid, and I wish we didn’t have to do this.  That’s all.”  Sansa let herself relax against him just slightly, a little thrill running through her at his words.      

After a long moment, she replied softly, “If wishes had power.”   

Jon leaned back, his hand falling away to grasp hers again, “Why?  What would you wish?”  Sansa let herself look at their hands, entwined and peaceful.  

“I’d wish for an easy peace and a good harvest and full coffers.  I’d wish for Arya to marry and have a brood of children that love fighting as much as she does.  I’d wish for Bran to be happy.”  

“Would you marry again Sansa?” Jon asked slowly.  She considered, still looking at their hands.  To marry would mean a marriage bed and resurrecting Ramsay’s ghost.  It would mean leaving Arya and Bran and Winterfell.  It might mean a life without Jon.  

“I will not leave home again.  Not for any man,” Sansa replied finally.  

“I would not try to force you,” he said softly.  He tugged her to her feet.  Letting go her hands, she let him brush the snow from shoulders.  He stepped back, smiling a little.  “You’ve listened to me blather on enough.  Come listen to Sam instead for a bit.  He’s always much more interesting than I am.”

* * *

“Well you see, my lady, it all started when Bran looked back and saw your Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar saying their vows.  He saw it all, as though he had been invited!” Sam gestured, with some of his old enthusiasm, and jostled little Sam.  Little Sam complained, growing red-faced.  Sam shushed him, guiltily rubbing the boy’s head until he quieted again.  

Arms wrapped around the boy, Sam went on in a whisper, “He’s gone back to see Lord Eddard when he was a child here, and he even saw Jon’s birth,” Sam darted a glance over at Jon.  Sansa could feel his tension, standing close together as they were.  She dared not look at him.  None of them had really spoken much about Jon not being their brother.  There was never time to truly think about it, unless it affected some strategy they were attempting.  It affected strategy now.  

“What precisely is  _it_ , Sam?” Sansa asked.  He looked at her, mouth frozen open for a moment.  

“Oh!  The dragonglass, my lady.  Ge— Clovis has been working at it trying to melt it.  But the fires won’t go hot enough.  Bran looked to see what the Targaryens has done to forge their blades and found it.  Balerion the Dread would light the forges for their smiths,” he smiled, but Sansa’s stomach tightened.  

“I thought that this would be a way to convince the lords of Daenerys' good intentions.  If she were to have her dragons help forge new blades for the houses that have lost theirs.  Or never had any to begin with.  I haven’t spoken to her yet, but I will if you agree,” Jon said.  He had not looked at her since the mention of his parents.  

“Do you think she would do this for us?  From her point of view, we’ve already cost her one child.  Now we ask her to exploit the other two?” Sansa asked.  

“Even if she won’t, I could ask one of the dragons to do it anyway,” Jon said, voice halting.  “Did I tell you that Drogon, the largest, let me touch it?  I petted it like it was Ghost,” Sansa could see him frowning.  

“I told...,” Jon took a breath and then went on, voice low and strained, “Father when we found the direwolves that there were five pups for the five trueborn children of House Stark.  They would’ve have been killed, I wanted Bran to have it.  When I found Ghost, I thought my heart would stop.  It was proof that I was a son of Ned Stark too,” he smiled but Sansa felt her skin prickle at the sight.  

“You are a Stark,” Sam said, his voice was firm though quiet.  Sansa glanced at him, surprised.  “You were raised by the Starks.  Your uncle Benjen likely knew who your mother was, if your father did.  They both loved you.  Don’t say you’re not a Stark.”

Jon shook his head, “You don’t understand.  When I touched Drogon... it felt just the same as when I’d found Ghost.  It was as though it was in my head.  The way Ghost is.  I know in my heart that Ghost is alive right now.  I don’t know what he’s doing, but I know he’ll be back soon.  It’s the same with the dragons.” 

Sansa stepped closer and laid a hand on Jon’s arm.  “Old Nan would tell us stories about wargs, do you remember?  They could be any animal they chose.  The Red Kings even kidnapped some of our Stark ancestors to try and peel the secret from them.  Perhaps it isn’t just Bran and Arya who have this ability.  What if you do too?”   

He looked at her, eyes huge.  “And what if, even though I was raised as a Stark, there’s enough of the Targaryen in me to make me as crazed as they were?”

“That’s shite,” Sam said.  He moved closer to them both, shifting little Sam out of the way slightly.  “You have a temper, yes.  You make decisions that I’m sure Lady Sansa would call questionable.  But if the gods flipped a coin when you were made, then it landed the right way.”

Sansa loved Sam in that moment.  Jon hesitated and then nodded.  

“I’ll work on asking Daenerys to help us with making the blades.  She’ll likely say yes.  It’s in her best interest, anyway,” Jon said.  Sansa let go his arm and looked at Sam curiously.  

“Why isn’t Bran with you?” she asked.  

“He’s not well this morning my lady.”  At her alarmed look, Sam hurried on, “It’s just a cough.  Maester Wolkan is caring for him and Gilly too. She knows quite a lot about healing now.”

Sansa tried to smile, but only managed to produce a quirk of her lips.  

“Go on.  I’ll come to check on him as soon as I’ve talked with Davos and Gendry.  I’m not riding out today, so I’ll be here if you need me,” Jon said, inclining his head toward the door.  

“Alright.  Thank you Sam,” Sansa pushed open the door and strode away down the hall.

At nearly every turn, there was someone greeting her or deciding that this moment was the choicest to engage her on some question of long term strategy.  It would usually have torn at her to have to be so dismissive, but all she could see in her mind was her mother, sitting at Bran’s bedside feverishly praying. 

Finally, at his door, she stopped short.  It was open slightly, and her sister stood to one side listening.  Arya raised a finger to her lips, and Sansa stifled the question she’d been about to ask. 

“You look terrible.  Are you going to be alright?” she heard Meera ask.  

“Considering that you told me I died in the cave, I think I look quite well for someone who’s been dead for so many months.”

“You did die in that cave.  The three eyed raven took you and buried you and the only bit of Bran that came back was the cheek,” she replied, quick as a whip.  There was a pause, and then Sansa heard Meera’s voice go on more quietly.  

“You were so healthy when we were beyond the Wall.  How can you fall ill now, when your family is depending on you?”

Bran sighed, “It’s just a chill.  Everyone gets them.  I’ve been outside at the tree, trying to see the ice dragon.  But when I get close,  _he_  sees me and I must flee or he’ll catch me again.”

“You know he is coming to Winterfell.  He wanted to kill the old man, and he wants to kill you.  You don’t have to look for him,” Meera said.  

“I must look for him.  Or else what am I good for?” Bran asked.  

There was a long silence.  Sansa looked to her sister, who glanced up at her, eyes wide.  Sansa had worried, in those rare moments when Bran had joined them for anything that wasn’t a strategy meeting that he was somehow lost still.  That he felt as poorly as she did herself when the dogs howled or when she remembered how she had taken Petyr at his word, even as she’d told herself that she’d never trust him again.  

“Bran… When I came home to Greywater, my father told me that we all have our part to play. I told him about Jojen, that I was the one to slit his throat,” Meera drew in a ragged breath.  “But he didn’t even react.  He’d already known that Jojen was going to die.  I was the only one who didn’t know.”  

“I—,” Sansa heard him interject, before he was cut off. 

“Don’t say you didn’t want him to die for you.  We pledged our lives to your house.  You and I should have known that we might be called upon to keep those oaths.”

“I know,” Bran said on a sigh, “I only wish that there was more that I could do.  I cannot ride into battle beside Jon, and I cannot keep the Night King at bay the way  _he_  did.  Nothing I have seen has shown me what it is that I am meant to do.”

“I carried the weapons because Jojen had other talents.  This is the same.  You will find what it is you are meant to do.”  There was a rustle as though Meera meant to rise.  Sansa gestured at her sister hurriedly and made her way to her chambers. 

Once they were inside, she turned to shut the door behind her sister asking, “Why were you outside?  You should’ve gone in to see—,” she stopped as her sister gave her a look. 

“You told me that she left angry with him.  Just like you and I have been confused and angry with him for months.  If she’s been able to forgive him and wants to speak to him again, I’m not going to stand in the way of that.”

Sansa looked away, knowing that her sister had the right of it.  Staving off the worry was difficult.  She tried to bury the memory of her mother pale faced and weary sitting by Bran’s bed.  She raised a hand to her forehead.  

“Fine.  I needed to speak with you regardless,” Sansa said.  

“About the dragonglass?” Arya asked, fingers of one hand tapping the dagger Bran had given her.  

“You know?  Never mind.  Of course you do,” Sansa paused, smiling a little.  “What else has Gendry told you?”

Arya rolled her eyes before speaking again, “He’s told me that forging any sort of blade will need dragon fire. What do you think she will do?” 

“Jon has gone to convince her now. But, I worry that she’ll see it as another way in which we owe her.” Sansa moved her hair away from her face and let her hand drop to her side. “But of course we do owe her, so I suppose we must just deal with it.”

“Deal with it?  And how do you propose we do that?  Chopping off heads isn’t an option apparently,” Arya asked.  

“We give her what she really wants and tell her that Cersei is planning an attack on Dragonstone, the Stormlands, and the Reach.”  Sansa said dismissively and frowned down at her sister, uncertain of how to ask her question.  

“When you were in Braavos, did the Faceless Men offer their services to anyone who asked?”

“We gave the gift to those who deserved it.  And some who probably didn’t.  Why?” Arya asked, flatly. 

“The letter Varys received.  I don’t know what it meant about the Faceless Men.  Will someone in the Iron Bank be killed?”

Arya was silent a long moment, and when she replied, her voice was distant.  “Braavos was built by Valyrian slaves that freed themselves.  If the Iron Bank chooses to support the Lannisters exclusively, it is not quite the same as supporting slavery, but it is close.”  She shook her head.  “Perhaps they would take the face of someone important in the Bank?  It’s hard to say.  Jaqen—,” Arya bit her lip.  

“ _They_  had me do so many different tasks that it was hard to tell what was a reason for it.  Did they send me to kill the thin man because they knew I would see Meryn Trant?”

Sansa sighed, “I don’t know Arya.  But they knew who you were and why you had come to them.  To simply let you leave and reclaim your name strikes me as queer.  There must have been a reason.”

“Whatever the reason, all we can assume is that they will not support Cersei or Daenerys.  If that means giving someone in the Iron Bank the gift, then that is no problem of ours,” Arya replied. 

Sansa eyed her, wondering whether or not her sister wished she were in Braavos.  She changed the subject, abruptly, “Has there been any word from our Uncle?” 

“Yes, I received a letter last night. Uncle Edmure would be glad to be out from underneath Lannister control. Though he wonders what has happened to his lady wife and son?” Arya said, intently looking up at Sansa. Sansa did not reply for moment, thinking of just what had happened to the Freys.  

“We tell him the truth.  Lady Roslin and her son are healthy and safe at the Twins.  What does he say of our request?”

“He says that he allied the Riverlands to Robb’s cause because he was Mother’s son.  He won’t bow to a foresworn bastard, no matter who his father was,” Arya replied.  

“So he’ll make himself King of the Trident?” Sansa asked, frustrated.  

“He didn’t say.  So what do you want to do about it?  Do we leave him be?  Or do we hold him to his oath?”

“We have no means to hold him to his oath Arya.  And he’s our blood.  We cannot punish him like he’s some errant lord,” Sansa paused.  “We should write to him again asking instead for him to be our ally.  If he refuses, then we’ll figure it out somehow.”

Sansa doubted whether Uncle Edmure would ever swear himself to them.  If the Blackfish hadn’t been willing to ride to their defense, then why would he?  They’d save themselves without him.  

 


	12. Chapter 12

The dizziness faded slowly.  It was replaced by a ringing noise in her ears that only worsened as she moved.   She kept still and focused on one of the clouds.  It scuttled by, driven by the wind, and was replaced with another.  It was a gaggle of clouds almost.  The thought made her want to laugh, and Arya supposed that meant she wasn’t concussed. 

A hand interposed itself between her and the sky. With an explosive sigh, she reached up and took it.  Jon pulled her up slowly and came to rest on his haunches at her side.  Taking her face between his hands, he smiled a little, and Arya rolled her eyes in return. 

“You’re alright then,” he said, amusement and worry coloring the words.  

“Obviously,” Arya replied, embarrassment giving her words a sharp tinge, but although she knew, she couldn’t stop it from happening.  “Let me up,” she said, trying to pull away and get to her feet.   

Jon let go and moved his hands to her shoulders to keep her on the ground.  “You gave yourself a good knock Arya. Stay down for moment.”

“I’m alright,” Arya replied, embarrassment worsening somehow.  She felt her cheeks growing hot, but Jon wouldn’t let up the pressure.  She subsided, looking away from him and knowing as she did that he could tell she was sulking.  

Jon managed to make her feel like a girl again at all the worst times.  Never mind that he wasn’t her real brother, he still acted like it was his duty to watch over her and keep her safe, as though she was a child.  It had taken an hour of arguing just to convince him to take her along during his visits to see the fortifications in the town.  Now that she’d let him get the drop on her, he’d be worse than ever.  

After a moment where she evaded his gaze, Jon let his hands fall away and stood to back away.  She heard him walk over to where her sword had spun out of her hand and pull it with an audible whine out of the dirt of the yard and through the air. 

“Mikken did his best work on this blade,” she heard him say musingly.  “It’s a pity he’s not here to make you a new one.”

Arya raised her head, brow tightening.  “Why would I need a new one?  There isn’t anything wrong with Needle,” she pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly as the dizziness returned with a rush.  It wasn’t any worse than the blows she’d taken from the waif, but it had been long months since Braavos.  When she was steady again, she made her way over to Jon who held the blade out toward her, showing her.  

“The nicks can be attended to, of course, but you are a little taller than when I gifted it to you.  It makes sense to have a blade that’s sized to you as you are now,” he said.  

“You’re one to talk,” Arya said, a smirk slyly sliding over her face.  

“Aye,” Jon replied, his eyes crinkling in a smile, "But I was a man grown when the Old Bear remade his sword for me.  It fit me then and luckily it still does.”

Arya shrugged, sheathing Needle slowly and moving back to their starting position.  “I don’t know that Gendry has the time to make me a new sword.  He’s enough to do trying to work the dragonglass you brought back.”

Jon mirrored her movements, starting to circle around her slowly.  His voice was distracted sounding when he responded, “Daenerys has already agreed to allow her dragon Rhaegal to light forges for us.”    

Arya let herself be herded, but refrained from drawing her sword.  Having the steel in her hand wouldn’t help, even if she’d been the right size for a broadsword.  It would only limit her options against an opponent like Jon, who always fought honorably, until he didn’t.  Better to keep her hands free until a blade would be useful.  

“Really?  And she agreed so easily?” Arya asked, amused.  Jon sighed in response. 

“What?  It’s a fair question.  She’s awful agreeable whenever you make a suggestion, but as soon as anyone else opens their mouth...” Arya drawled the words.  

She watched Jon’s brow furrow.  “Arya... Don’t.” 

“Why?  You don’t like hearing how much your dragon queen loves you?” she sing-songed the words, inching closer.  “She’s ever so sweet and kind with Sansa and me, of course.  We’re your sisters.  We may as well be you,” Arya kept her breath even, steadily working her way closer to Jon.  He looked well and truly annoyed, which was good.  

Arya was annoyed too.  At having to still play the game at home.  At Mother and Father.  At Robb and Rickon.   At Gendry who was always looking at her like she’d poked him with Needle, when he thought she couldn’t see.  At Jon for being King and not just her brother.  At all these stupid lords who were probably going to piss themselves and then revolt as soon as that stupid dragon came to light the forges and save all their lives.  

She watched her brother’s face grow unreadable again, and let her irritation fall away.  Perhaps he’d been annoyed enough to make a mistake in this bout and perhaps not.  She flicked her eyes around the yard, trying not to betray her thoughts, and then decided suddenly what she’d do.  She kept the amusement off her face easily and in the space between one blink and another lunged toward her brother.  

He spun away, drawing his sword, singing, out of the sheath in one smooth motion.  By the time he had completed the spin, Arya had stopped her headlong rush, turned, and darted toward the wall.  She kept a grip on Needle to keep it from tripping up her legs.  To the side and behind her, Jon’s footsteps susurrated on the snow.  

She came as close as she dared and then whipped herself around once more to dart along the wall.  Jon let out an exasperated _Arya_ , as he made to continue chasing her but couldn’t finish the whatever the rest of his sentence was to have been.  

“Fuck,” he said instead, and Arya let herself smile.  She slowed to a walk and turned around.  Jon had slid on a patch of ice near the wall and landed on his side. His sword hand was beneath him, and his blade had flown out of his hand and laid beyond his reach.

“I think I win this time,” Arya said, and bent down to gather up some snow.  “I think that makes it four times now, compared to your three,” she packed the snow in her hands, feeling the crunch as it took the shape she wanted.  

“And since I’m the victor that means I get to choose my winnings,” she bounced the snowball in her hand for a moment and then set it aside to start another.  She looked up at her brother, who was smiling ever so slightly.  

“And what sort of prize were you intending to claim?” Jon asked.  

“I’ll ride out with you and the Hound to meet Lady Hornwood today.  And you’ll stop fighting me every time I want to go out on patrol.”  There was a silence.   

“That’s two prizes and one of them I cannot agree to,” Jon replied, smile disappearing from his face as though it had never been.  Arya sighed.  “You need my eyes, Jon.  I’m of much use out there as I am in here,” Arya began to reply.  

“Aye. You are of use in Winterfell.  And you’re safe in Winterfell.  And you get along well with Daenerys in Winterfell.  I need that— We need that more than I need you outside the walls checking on the men,” Jon said, slipping a little as he climbed to his feet. 

Arya watched as he gathered up his sword and sheathed it again.  She met his eyes when he turned around.  “I survived outside the walls of Winterfell for years.  The dangers we are facing here are not greater than the dangers I faced in Kings Landing or Harrenhal.  You weren’t there to protect me then, and I don’t need your protection now.  As you can see,” Arya gestured around the yard, second snowball in one hand.  

Jon scoffed.  After a long moment spent watching her begin to work on the third snowball, “You're a woman grown.  I know that.  You don’t need a nursemaid to look after you.  But you’re my little sister and I must at least try—” A cough interrupted whatever he had been about to say next. 

Arya stood, letting the beginnings of the third snowball fall through her fingers.  It was Ser Davos.  Arya was still not sure how she felt about him.  Jon trusted the grizzled old man and Sansa seemed to, as well.  Though Sansa was as good at playing the game as Arya was herself, so that was no help.  

In some ways, Davos reminded her of Yoren.  He had cared about her, Yoren had.  But Yoren had not been nearly as clear-eyed as Davos was.  He watched her brother and Sansa more than he watched all the strangers filling up the castle.  Most like he’d watch her too, and Bran, if he could ever get close enough to observe them.   She brought herself to stand close by Jon’s flank and placed her hands on her belt by Needle’s hilt.  

“Lad.  We’ve had another raven from the Wall,” Davos said, and as he approached she could see the scroll clutched in his hand.  He came close and dropped the scroll into her brother’s palm. Arya looked out over the yard, eyes scanning slowly.  It was still early yet and few enough people were brave enough to risk the cold.  No onlookers to listen in.  

“Edd has Beric Dondarrion and Tormund at Castle Black.  The Watch are preparing to fall back from the castle and make their way to the Shadow Tower.  The Free Folk who weren’t killed are there, and the rest he’s sending word to have ride south to Winterfell with all speed,” Jon let the scroll roll itself up and crushed it between his fingers.  

Arya glanced from his hands, which were clenching and unclenching over themselves, to his face.  She let her eyes flicker over to Davos, who was observing her brother, as usual.  

“I’ll need to speak with Royce, Glover and Cerwyn.  And Tyrion, Mormont and Grey Worm as soon as I can.  Can you gather them up and bring them to my solar?” Jon asked.  “Keep them in good spirits if you can.”

“Of course.  What about the Queen?  And Lady Sansa?” 

Jon replied slowly, “They're taking their meal together this morning.  I’ll speak with them later.” 

Arya watched Davos nod and turn away.  When he was out of hearing, she spoke, “You have to stop doing that.”   

“Doing what?” Jon asked, gesturing for her to follow him out of the yard.  They passed beyond the overhang where Father and her lady Mother had watched them at play.  It was almost the same now as it had been before it had gotten burnt.   

“Your hands.  You make fists of them when you’re worried.  Don’t do that,” Arya said.  “Then everyone knows that what you’re about to say is bad.”

Jon gave her an incredulous look before shaking his head.  “You see everything don’t you,” he said, the words coming out on a sigh.  “Well, since you’re so clear-eyed, how will Glover and Cerwyn react to my plan to send out groups of their men to form up scouting camps?”

They passed the forges, still smoldering from Gendry’s latest efforts.  “Will you tell them about this plan before or after you tell them about the dragon coming to Winterfell?”

Jon scoffed a laugh before replying, his voice laced with sarcasm, “After, of course. Good news should always follow bad.”  He pulled open a door leading to the hall and gestured her in before him.  

* * *

“And how did Lord Cerwyn reply?”

“He said he’d be damned if he allowed some foreign bitch to bring her fire breathing monstrosity into the heart of the North,” Arya recited the words, keeping her voice steady.  It was an effort.  

“That was all? He didn’t say anything more?” her sister prompted.  Her voice sounded remote, as though the news of one of their bannermen having words with their king was of no concern.  

“Then he said that if she brought one or both of her animals here to join the vermin she’d brought with her from Essos, he would take his men home.  Then he left and Jon asked the others to forgive him and asked to reconvene later.”

Arya leaned herself against the side of the chair and waited.  The beginning of the meeting hadn’t been terrible.  Jon had changed his mind and told them about the Wall first.  Probably thinking to make them afraid and then show them to safety.  And if it weren’t for Cerwyn being, as the Hound would put it, a little girl, the introduction of dragons might have gone over smoothly.  

Instead all the dragon queen’s men left looking askance at her brother and all of Sansa’s men too.  There was only herself and Davos to support Jon.  And that was clearly not enough.  Arya let her mind wander for a second and considered what a Faceless Man might do in such circumstances.  Wait for orders, was the thought that came to mind.  Arya sighed and glanced up to meet her sister’s gaze.  

“Go look in on Bran for me and see how he does. Then go find Jon and make sure he’s not off sulking somewhere,” Sansa asked, shuffling her papers closed.  As she made to rise and settle her cloak over her shoulders, Arya nodded.  

“And if he is?” she asked.  

“Then remind him about the Hornwoods.  In the meantime, I’m going to speak with Cerwyn and the rest.  We cannot afford this nonsense at this late stage,” Sansa shook her head and sighed before going on, “I hope it’s just a matter of giving him something he wants.”

“If it’s not, then we hold him to his oath and make him pay the consequences if he still refuses to follow Jon’s order.” Arya replied, her words sharp.  

“Arya... We cannot afford for our people to become disaffected.  Robb punished Lord Karstark and we both know where that led.  We must convince them that to follow Jon’s orders will lead to peace and prosperity and all the comforts they had under Father’s rule.  And for that to happen, we need their love.”

Arya gave her sister a look full of scorn.  “Our bannermen ought to follow their liege lord’s commands.  They shouldn’t need to be cosseted like lapdogs.  We do our part and they do theirs.  It’s simple.”  As she finished speaking, Arya watched Sansa roll her eyes and felt herself grow more heated.  

“What?  I’m wrong about this too?”

“You’re not wrong.  But the world doesn’t work like that.  You said so yourself not a fortnight ago. it’s not only the deserving who die,” Sansa said, coming around the desk.  She paced closer to Arya and stood with her arms crossed, waiting. 

“I said that, but we were talking about slavery.  Not free men who chose Jon to lead them.  If they’re this disloyal before the battle has even begun, then we should root them out now,” Arya ground the words out between her teeth.  

“The battle has never stopped, Arya,” Sansa replied, “And no matter what we do, the people most loyal to us are the ones we lose first.  All we have left are the dregs.  We must _make do_ , as best we can.”  Sansa stopped, her voice having started to rise.  “Now please go find Jon and let him know that I’m going to talk to our bannermen.  I want you both back before dinner.”

Arya stared up at her sister for another moment, knowing that her face was betraying her and not caring.  She pushed herself off the chair and turned on her heel for the door.  

Sansa let her go without saying another word, which rankled more than Arya liked.  She was a woman grown and she didn’t have to feel guilty for getting into arguments with her stupid sister.  

She stalked away, taking in the folk around her, cursorily.  Jon was like as not still in his solar, so she climbed up the steps up to his room.  The door to the solar was ajar and Jon sat at the round table.  Arya slid in and pushed the door shut behind her.  Jon noticed her and the frown that had been hinted at on his face, deepened.  

“What did Sansa say?” he asked. 

Arya replied, “She wants us to see how Bran is today and then she wanted me to tell you not to forget about the Hornwoods.”

Jon nodded slightly but didn’t make to rise.  

Arya waited and then reached across the table to tap his knuckles.  When he looked at her, a tilt to his head, she spoke to answer the unvoiced question.  “Were you always this terrible at talking to people?”

After a moment of blank silence, Jon laughed.  It started softly, barely a murmur low in his throat.  Then it bubbled over and rang around the room.  It wasn’t what Arya had been expecting, but it made her strangely happy to hear it.  Jon had always had a smile for her when they were children.  

Jon stood from the table slowly and ran a hand over his hair.  “I haven’t laughed like that in years it feels like,” he smiled at her.  “And yes, I’ve always been awful at talking.  Sulking’s what I do best.”

Arya felt herself smile in return.  Not the smirk she’d worn earlier in amusement, but a real smile of happiness.  It felt so fleeting, Arya wished she could grasp at the feeling before it ran through her fingertips like the snow had that morning.  She dithered for a moment, wanting suddenly to hug her brother.  The moment passed too soon.  Jon was on his feet before she could make her decision and swinging his cloak off the back of his chair.  The deep brown luster of the fur collar glinted in the low light of the fire as Jon pulled it about his shoulders.  He nodded his head toward the door and spoke, “Let’s go see about Bran shall we?”

Arya tilted her chin briefly in reply and led the way out into the corridor.  From the solar to Bran’s room was only a matter of a single staircase, and at this time of day, Arya knew, most of the castle would be out of doors trying to feel the warmth of the sun.  They were welcome to try, the lot of them.  

The door to Bran’s room was pulled shut, and at her knock, it wasn’t Bran’s voice she heard.  It was Gilly’s.  She lifted her eyes to Jon’s, whose eyes were already wide with surprise.  He pushed the door open and strode in ahead of her.  Gilly stood from Bran’s bedside, a cloth dripping water hanging from her hand.  

“Jon Snow,” she said, her tone vaguely disapproving.  Arya raised an eyebrow, still wondering what was the cause of the friction between her brother and the wilding woman.  Most of the women who spoke to her brother, with exception of Lyanna Mormont, sounded insipid.  

“You ought to have come last night when I told you to,” she said, “he isn’t making much sense today and he’s hot to the touch.  So I’ll thank you to get out of the sickroom and stop bringing in bad air.”  She sat and stared up at him.  

“I couldn’t come last night Gilly.  I had to attend to matters outside the castle walls,” Jon replied.   Arya came forward, peering around Gilly into the bed, before perching on the side.  She lifted a hand and let it rest in the air above Bran’s cheek.  It was like holding her hand in front of a fire.  

“He’s had this chill for days.  Why isn’t he getting better?” Arya asked, turning her head to look at Gilly.   

The other woman looked away from Jon, and laid the rag over Bran’s forehead.  “The Maester says it’s to expected for illness to be worse in him than it would be in us.  Sam’s gone to make a drink for him so he can have some food in his belly.  That ought to help some.”

Arya frowned.  From what she and Sansa had overheard, Bran had not been ill all throughout the long walk beyond the Wall.  For him to be so fevered now was more than passing strange.  Being in Braavos at the House of Black and White had showed her that to hack a man’s head off was only one of a thousand ways to kill, as was poison.  But if it was poison, then to attack Bran first was odd.  Sansa was Lady Stark and the Lady of the Dreadfort.  Jon was the King in the North.  They were better targets by far. 

Still looking down at her brother, Arya asked, musingly, “Has the maester thought that perhaps the fever is more than a simple chill?  Has he looked for poison?”

She heard Jon draw in a breath as though to speak and went on before he could interrupt, “It is only a thought Jon.  If it were true, then most like we would all be ill, not just Bran.  Everyone in the castle eats the same food.”

“Aye, they do,” Jon replied, his voice tight, “And I’ll ask Maester Wolkan and Sam to be sure that it’s not the case.”  He paused and Arya glanced up at him.  His face was still open and worry had wrinkled his brows and turned his mouth into a straight line.  He spoke again, “I must go Gilly, but I will come again this evening.  Nothing will stop me.”

Arya stood from Bran’s bed, slowly.  She nodded to Gilly briefly and walked out in the hall.  It had never truly occurred to her that with all they had survived, one of her family could be brought low by a chill.  A knife in the back had been what it took to kill Mother and Father and Robb.  It had even killed Jon.

“Arya are you well?” Jon’s voice called to her from where he stood in the door.  He looked at her for a long moment as she turned around to face him and then crossed to her in two big steps.  He took her into his arms in the middle of the hall, the folds of his cloak swung around to wrap them both.

“Did Sansa make this to look like Father’s?” she asked, knowing already that it was true. 

“As close as she could remember, she said,” Jon said, sighing, before stepping back.  He looked down at her, saying, “Bran will be well again.  We’ll make sure of it together.  We won’t lose him.”

“I know,” Arya clamped her mouth shut after the words.  Even those two words felt like lies.  Everyone could die, in their beds, slipping on ice outside their door, falling off their horse.  She had killed men and boys herself, and Jon too.  How many of those folk had said to their families that they’d return only for it to have been a lie?  She bit her lip, worrying at the flesh.

Jon sighed.  “Let’s go gather the men.  We need to catch the light before it leaves us.”

* * *

The snow danced from the sky every few minutes.  It was no hardship to ride through a dusting like this to retrieve Lady Hornwood and her party.  Truth be told, it was rather nice to go beyond Winterstown and see more of the land beyond home.  Out here, it was almost too easy to forget that Bran was ill at home, and the lords were rebelling, and her friend wanted to marry her.  Instead all she had to think about was not losing sight of the party, and making sure Jon was safe.

She blinked a bit of snow out of her eyes and glanced over at the Hound who’d been riding, silent by her side, for the last hour.  He hadn’t said a word since they’d set out and now his face was a picture.

“You look like a man who needs to take a shit,” Arya called to him.  He shook his shaggy head, dislodging snow from the knit cap he’d stolen off someone, but didn’t look over her or change his expression. 

“I’d thought you’d grow some manners living in the same castle as your sister.  But you still manage to sound as though you grew up in Gin Alley,” he replied, tersely.

“Sansa curses too.  Quietly,” Arya said, wondering as she said it if that were true.  She shrugged to herself.  It’d made him open his mouth, which was an improvement.

“What’s your issue?” she asked, nudging her mount closer to his, so she could speak more softly.

“Why is it that whenever you see me, we talk about how I feel?” he asked.  “Are you in love with me girl?  I’m old enough to be your father, if you remember.”

Arya ignored him, “You’re in a snit, but you wanted to come with Jon and I to meet some Northern family that’s of no importance to you.  Why?”  She looked to him again, waiting.

He replied, sounding surly, “I try to not be in the castle with the little bird when you’re both gone.  It reminds her of Kings Landing.  Now, I’ve told you.  Will you leave off?”

“That’s it?  You came with us because you didn’t want to make Sansa feel poorly?  You hardly talk to her,” Arya replied, confused.

“Aye.  That’s why.  And of course I don’t talk to her.  I’m not stupid enough to do that.  No need to remind us both of that little shit Joffrey,” the Hound replied, still with anger lacing his voice.  He went on, “And you?  What’s the matter with you?  Sitting by the fire with your boy not enough for a killer like you?”

Arya jerked on the reins, unmeaning, and had to set her horse to catching up.  “My boy?”

“Don’t play games with me girl.  The blacksmith.  The whole castle knows you’re fucking him.  Or you were.  What happened?”

Arya was silent a while as her horse trotted alongside the other man's.  She’d been avoiding seeing Gendry as much as she could.  His was a door she didn’t want to open because she didn’t know what lay on the other side.  She’d never dreamed about marrying a prince and having babies and wearing dresses the way Sansa had.  Her horse took her over a fallen tree branch, while the Hound steered his mount around it.  But in the weeks since Gendry’d asked, the idea had become tempting.  Gendry didn’t want a great lady like her mother or Sansa.  He knew who she was, and she knew him. 

“He asked me to marry him,” Arya said, finally.  The Hound’s expression gradually eased into something less grim. 

“He wants to die,” the Hound replied, a bark of laughter loosing itself from his chest.  The noise had Jon and the others swinging around in their saddles to look at them.  Jon glanced at her face, which she fought to keep the frustration out of, and peered at the Hound.  He reined in and waved the men at arms onward.  He waited, his horse stamping ‘til she and the Hound reached him.

“What’s this?” he asked, voice mild.  He looked from her to the Hound curiously.

“Nothing,” Arya replied, just as the Hound said, “The blacksmith wants her for a wife.”  Arya looked at Jon and then back at the Hound, feeling wild with irritation and nerves.  “I didn’t say that so you could shoot off to the next person you see,” Arya hissed.

“Let’s catch the others,” Jon said, voice quiet and bland.  He spurred his horse, and Arya scrambled to do the same.  The Hound followed sedately, still chuckling.  After a few minutes, Jon spoke, “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or not.  It seems rather sudden.  You’ve barely met him.”

Arya sighed, “I met Gendry just after Father was killed.  He was to go to the Wall with Yoren after his master decided to break off the apprenticeship.”  She kept her gaze averted from Jon, knowing already what she’d see.  His guarded face would be tucked into the cloak that Sansa’d made so he’d look like Father.  “We traveled together.  We fought together.  We survived together.  I know him.”  She took a breath meaning to say more, feeling suddenly as though a weight was lifted off her chest.  Jon spoke before she could.  

“This morning… before Davos brought the letter from Edd.  When I’d said I knew you were a woman grown, I had been going to say I must protect you even so.  That if I didn’t make it my life’s work to protect you, then I may as well go back to being dead,” he spoke, barely above the noise of their horses’ hooves.  Arya leaned toward him in her saddle to hear him.

“But perhaps you were right.  You don’t need me,” Jon said.

She let herself say what she’d been holding back since she returned.  “I don’t feel like I’m your sister sometimes.  I feel like a stranger, come into the house to pretend that she’s Arya of House Stark.  And then other times, I know I must be your sister, because we want the same things.  To protect people,” Arya paused, the next words coming slowly, “I don’t think I can be the girl I was before Joffrey and Cersei chopped off Father’s head.  But I don’t know who the woman Arya is, either.”

“You’re a woman grown now.  You’ve fought and killed and survived.  Of course, you’re different.  We’re all different.   But you’ve chosen to be here with us Arya.  Which means that now you get to choose to relearn how to be Arya Stark,” Jon replied. 

“And if that means that you want to do what your lady mother would’ve wanted and marry, then that is your choice.  I trust you no matter what you choose to do.”  

Arya was silent in the face of his words.  Since Father had been killed, most every step she’d taken had felt like a choice between continuing to survive or dying.  Even in Braavos, when she’d disobeyed orders and killed, or disobeyed and not killed, it had still been that way.  Those choices had to be made or who she was would have died.  Marriage had never entered her mind, other than to remind her of Sansa.  It was a different sort of choice.   As though instead of choosing to not die, she could choose to live.  The thought felt freeing somehow.  

“Your Grace, the Hornwood party is ahead,” one of the soldiers called back.   Arya shook herself.  Marriage and other choices could wait. 

* * *

 

Dark had fallen by the time they’d turned back to Winterfell with the Hornwoods in tow.  Arya had left the mess of wagons and horses and people in the yard, nodded to her sister when she came to greet the new arrivals and disappeared up the wall walk overlooking the moors.  

The air was clean and cold and cut through her muddled thoughts 'til only what felt like truth was left.  Father had said she’d rule a holdfast as someone’s lady wife.  She’d rejected it then, still dreaming her summer child’s dream of being a knight.  But perhaps Father hadn’t been all wrong.  

There was no one to stop her from ruling a holdfast in her own right as Sansa did.  Brienne has shown her that it was possible to act as a knight ought and be a woman.  Mother had been councilor to a king, and a wife and mother besides.  Perhaps she could be all of those things.   

Mind made up, Arya moved off toward the steps.  She stopped short in the next instant.  The household guards at the end of the walk were gone.  Her fingers tightened themselves into fists.  

If there was someone beyond the end of the walk waiting for her, to go toward them would be foolish.  But turning her back and making for the other side was just as dangerous.   

The decision was taken from her before Arya could make up her mind either way.   

“Once a girl had a list.  The names on the list, she whispered to herself before she slept and she said them to herself as she worked.  Some names she’s taken off the list, but still others remain,” a man’s voice sounded behind her, murmuring and musical close to her ear.  Arya drew in a quick breath, shocked, and made to turn but a firm hand landed on her shoulder and kept her facing away.

“A girl made a choice to reclaim her name and became once more Arya Stark of Winterfell.  And now that she is home, she has taken no more names off her list.”

“What’s that to you?” Arya asked.  Her hands ached to reach for Needle, for the dagger Bran had gifted her.  But whomever had come was better by far than she was.  To reach for her sword would spell a long fall and quick death.  Better to listen.

“A man,” Arya jumped a little at the words, despite herself, “offers Arya Stark of Winterfell an opportunity to become a girl again.  To strike a name from her list and to serve the Many Faced god.”

“And which name would a girl offer to the Many Faced god?” Arya asked, belly churning with nausea.

“The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei Lannister,” came the reply.

 


	13. Chapter 13

The chill overtaking Westeros had not reached Volantis it seemed.  The air clung to her skin the way it always had.  And the market place cries of the slaves and the common people echoed from every stone archway.  The din was disquieting after the years spent at Stannis’ side.  After the chill of the North and the lands closest to that of Winter.  But it was necessary to be here.  The mistakes she’d made could not be repeated.  It was safer to confer with the others.   

She did not shy away from thinking about her mistake with Stannis.  What good would that do?  The Lord had no use for cowards.  It was more important to think on what had happened so that she could report on it to the high priestess.  

The new priestess was nearly of an age with herself, although the other had been fortunate enough to be raised not as a slave, but as the daughter of a wealthy man.  It had been her choice to follow the Lord.  But she was loyal and clever, nevertheless.  Perhaps she would be able to see what had gone wrong.

Nearly too soon, the little swain poling her boat along the waterway had deposited her at the steps of the great temple.  Thronged with crowds as ever, that much had not changed.  She had been away less than ten years, and yet it felt as long as a hundred.  Here now, though, with the cries of the supplicants beating on her ears, she felt reborn.  It was not a triumphant homecoming, but at least she was home for a little while. 

Stepping lightly from the boat onto the quay, Melisandre was careful to compose her face.  It would not do to appear too glad to return to the temple.  After all, the believers were expecting a certain degree of majesty from their priestesses.  

The crowd of believers began to part for her as she ascended the steps.  Each step gleamed with the inky dark sheen of obsidian.  The sun beating down heated each step just enough so that she felt the fire of the sun beneath her feet, even though her sandals.  It was another reminder of Westeros.  Of its frozen lakes, snowy mountains and the chill heart of the North where the Great Other lay in wait beyond the Wall.

So consumed with the thoughts of her struggles in the land beyond the narrow sea, Melisandre arrived at the top of the stairs, and only then realized that the crowd had fallen silent.  The doors had been swung wide open to the temple.  Stepping out was the new high priestess, Kinvara, and as her face emerged from the gloom, Melisandre felt herself shiver.  The other woman was changed.  Her power was clear from the moment her face had emerged from the gloom of the temple. 

Arms raised to give an invocation to the crowd, Kinvara began to speak, and Melisandre swept herself to one side, feeling in her marrow the ache of longing for that same assurance that had been lost to her after giving the girl, Shireen, to the flames.  Even after seeing the awesome power of the Lord brought to bear on Jon Snow’s life, she found the peace of unshakeable faith eluding her.  

“The night is dark and full of terrors,” she heard Kinvara say, her voice close to a whisper it seemed, yet all the crowd responded in one voice, as though she had been speaking with her lips pressed against each of their ears.  It struck her then, that the Lord had certainly chosen two of the poorest servants to send to Westeros to convert the masses there, if that indeed was what his goal was.  Perhaps she and Thoros had not been sent to convert the masses, and the reason for their mission was still to become clear.  

The daily prayer was over, Melisandre not having heard a word of it, although of course, it had not been meant for her.  Watching Kinvara’s face for a sign, she was rewarded when the other woman’s eyes cut to her ever so slightly before she turned to retreat into the temple.  Melisandre waited as the crowd dispersed and then strode up the few remaining steps and through the still open doors.  They closed behind her, with an almost inaudible whisper.  She paused to let her eyes adjust to the light. 

Then as she became accustomed, she saw before her the great central hearth in the distance.  The dance of the shadows against the walls beckoned her, as they always had, and she found herself striding down the passageway.  The years faded and it was as though she had never left.  How many initiates had she led through their rites of passage here?  How many little lambs had she sacrificed and watched as their faces became lost in the flames?  That thought slowed her steps a little, and she reached the great hearth feeling unpleasantly warm.

Ranged around the hearth were the others whose faces she had missed, when she'd had time to think of them.  Joqo and Mireen bronzed from their preaching on the streets of the Free Cities.  Mireen's thick black hair was longer than Melisandre remembered, but Shanaz’s emaciated and stern face was the same as ever.  Kinvara stood furthest, resplendent in her gown of deep burgundy.  The same chain and stone that bound Melisandre’s neck coiled around her throat too.  But hers yet glowed with the Lord’s fire.  After a moment of jealousy, Melisandre realized that one was person was yet missing. 

“And Quaithe?  Is she not to attend?” Melisandre ventured the question, feeling as though she knew the answer.  The silence that followed was broken by Kinvara. 

“She serves our Lord with singular purpose, as do we all.  But she cannot attend,” Kinvara smiled, thinly.  “But we wish to hear, sister, of your travels to that heathen land, nevertheless.  Are there many believers in Westeros?” 

Melisandre did not hesitate to answer, “No.  All those I had converted to our faith are dead on the field of battle.  And the one or two that believe in the Lord’s power, do not serve him.”  She took a breath, intending to say more but let the impulse die.  Five years were not long enough to change Kinvara’s preference for brevity, and if they had been watching at all then much of her news would be known. 

“Sister, this news is devastating to us all.  Yet, why do you come in person to tell us this?  A message could have come to us from Westeros.  There was no need to tear yourself away from your mission there to bring us word of your failure.”  Kinvara spoke, the words fluid and sweet to the ear.  But there was no mistaking the look on her face. 

“When I left, I left with the permission of the high priest.  He believed that my vision in the flames was correct.  That our battle with the Great Other was nigh.  And he was right to believe.  I have met the ones who are to play a role in this battle, in Westeros,” Melisandre replied.

“And I have been to meet with the servants of the Mother of Dragons,” Kinvara said.  “She is the one of whom you speak, is she not?”  

“She is one, yes.  But the other is a man.  A descendant of what the Westerosi call the First Men.  He is one who yet believes in the Lord, though he does not follow him,” Melisandre replied. 

“Why does he believe but not follow?”  Shanaz asked the question sharply.  

“He believes because through me our Lord brought him back from the dead,” Melisandre replied, glancing around at them all.  

“You all know of what I speak.  We have read of other priests who have raised the dead to serve the Lord of Light again.  He breathed his spark into the dead ones and they lived again.  They—," Melisandre stopped as Kinvara raised her hand. 

“ _You_ have this power?  We have all looked into the flames, sister, and seen the Lord’s signs.  Seen his plans for us revealed.  I have even looked on your behalf as your time away from us grew long.  And this thing I did not see.” 

The years had given Melisandre many trials, and many gifts to counterbalance them.  Patience with the non-believer who must be convinced and not burned was one of them.  She drew herself up and let loose the long calming breath she had been taught to use as a way to keep her mind clear.  Only then did she speak. 

“Joqo, do you remember why I was chosen to follow Thoros of Myr to Westeros?” Melisandre asked, placing a hand to her throat to draw his eye.  She saw the flinch flash across his face. 

“It was not just the near future you could see, but that which lay behind and beyond,” he replied.  On his bronzed face, she could see the hint of doubt she wished for.  A bead of sweat trickled down near his temple.  He remembered, if none of her sisters did, that she had seen how each of them had come to be standing here.  That she had seen the sign of dragons come to exist in the world again, years before the Mother of Dragons had even been born.  

“When I say to you that I raised a man from the grips of death, I tell you the truth.  He may be a child of the prophecy, just as the Mother of Dragons may be.  And if you did not see this power coming to me, then you may blame the Other.  For when I dragged Jon Snow from death, we were near the lands of Winter.” 

Kinvara tilted her head and smiled again.  “Then since you are returned to us from those cold, dark lands the fires of our Lord should show us how we should proceed.”  She glided close and laid a hand upon Melisandre’s arm.  They were of a height, and it sent a shiver down her spine to be in such closeness to the other woman.  

“Rest sister.  Mireen and Shanaz will guide you.  And when you wake, we will pray,” Kinvara smiled again, and then gathered her skirts and walked away. 

Melisandre sighed.  “She does not believe me.” 

“ _I_ don’t believe you,” Mireen replied.  “She tells the truth sister.  We could barely glimpse you in the flames.  We feared you lost as Thoros was.  That the heathens had caused you to lose your way.” 

“Now you return with a story of having great power.  Enough to raise the dead.  How are we to believe you?”  The other woman shook her head and linked their arms together.  They walked in silence, Shanaz following close behind.  

Melisandre knew not what to say to convince them.  In truth what she wanted was to have all their priests and novices take ship for Westeros and the North.  To fight.  But if they could not believe her words about Jon Snow, then they would never agree to her plea.

* * *

 

The suite of rooms they gave her had the same obsidian in its walls they overlaid the steps leading to the doors of the temple.  She had laid a hand upon the stones and felt their warmth.  The same as she had done her first night as a novice, all those long years ago.    

She had stripped herself of all but a thin shift and curled herself up onto a bed of blankets near the fire.  And slept as if felled.  When she woke, the fire still blazed, but another figure had joined her on the blankets.  Kinvara’s dark hair laid across her shoulders and curtained her face in shadow.  But Melisandre would know her anywhere.  

“Let us begin again sister,” the other woman spoke.  She turned her head to peer down at Melisandre and smiled.   The firelight glinted off her teeth.  It was to be like talking to Stannis, Melisandre realized in that moment.  He had not wanted to believe what she told him either.   But if he had not gone North on her word, Jon Snow would have been dead and burned.  And the Other would have had yet another victory.  

She pushed herself up on one hand and gathered herself for a moment.  “Whom do we serve?”

“Our Lord, R’hllor,” the other woman replied, patient and voice still easy.  

“I convinced Stannis Baratheon that to serve the Lord, he must become the King of the Seven Kingdoms and defeat the Other.”

“On the strength of my belief, that he was the Prince that was Promised, I convinced him and his family and many of his servants that by following my word they would save our world.”

“And you were wrong,” Kinvara said, as simply as though she were talking about the weather.  

“I was wrong.  I was... devastated.  I had read all the signs wrong, for years.   By that time, we were in the far North at the Wall the Westerosi built to keep out the Other,” Melisandre paused to draw a breath. 

“I lost faith in the Lord.  I could not see what it was I was meant to do.  When I stared into the flames I saw nothing but fire.  He did not speak to me,” Melisandre wrapped her arms around herself. 

“But then Jon Snow was killed.  And one of Stannis’ men begged me to try and raise him.  For the North was sure to lose in their battle against the Other without him.   So I tried.  I tried for hours.   And he would not wake.” 

“I left to cry my tears where they would not see, but before I could even reach the stair, Jon Snow took his first breath.” 

"He lived, sister, and what the Lord had shown me about him— that he would ride into battle and save his family home— came true.”  Melisandre looked to the other woman hopefully.   Nothing of what she had said was less than the absolute truth.  But would Kinvara hear her sincerity?  Or would she send for the guards and have her taken to a cell to have her begin her training again?

“I have told you that the servants of the Mother of Dragons called for me to come to their aid,” Kinvara spoke quietly.    

“They were non-believers.  And one was godless entirely.  But they believed in their Mother.  That she was the one to lead them.  From what you say, this may not be the case,” Kinvara finished, still musing and solemn.   

“No.  Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen are of one accord.  I brought them together myself,” Melisandre responded, feeling the bloom of hope suddenly in her chest.

“Then why are you here?” Kinvara turned to her fully, “I have prayed about you, looked for you in the flames, but all I am ever able to see is death.” 

“I see no victories for you Melisandre of Asshai.   I see no triumph.   I see no role for you to play in the war against the other.  Why do you bring death to this doorstep?” 

Melisandre hesitated.  What Kinvara said was what she herself had seen.  Since burning the girl, there had been no new visions in the flames. All that she ever saw was fire and bone. She tried not to think about it too much. After all, she had been wrong many times now.  And who was to say whether what she saw in the flames was true? 

“I do not come to the temple to bring death to you all.  I come to ask for your help. You must know, even better than I, that the Great Other is awake.  You must have seen his servants, in the flames.  I come to ask you to help me fight in this great war.  For what have we been amassing followers if not to fight on behalf of our Lord?”

“What you say is true. Yet, I cannot order our priests to do this thing that you ask without prayer. Dress, and then meet me with the others and we will pray, and think on this thing that you asked us all to do.”

Kinvara rose and waited as she did the same.  Melisandre turned and laid her hands on her gown.  She stepped into it and made to pull tight the laces around her middle, but another set of hands brushed hers away.  

“Dear sister, I fear this is not the welcome you longed for,” Melisandre kept her silence.  It was the truth, but she was too old to play games, even if Kinvara appeared to still relish them.  “But _I_ am high priestess now.  I must care for all our flock and make the choices that will decide our future.  We believe in what we see sister.  In the flames and in the flesh.  And we have not seen you in either for much too long.  Have patience.”  

Her hands finished their work and patted her waist before withdrawing.  “Now come.”

* * *

Her knees ached.  Her eyes were burning.  But she was the only one who showed fatigue.  All the others stared into the flames, murmuring of what they saw to the novices who scrambled to record their words for study later.  

Melisandre had seen nothing at all except bones bleached white.  Whose bones they were, she could not say.  She bowed her head, chin touching her chest, waiting for the others to finish.   She passed the time that way, dozing in front of the fire, for hours.  After a time, a novice laid a cup and platter by her knee and touched her gently.  

“Priestess, will you eat?  The others have completed their prayers.”  Melisandre raised her head, stretching her arms out to her sides.  She opened her eyes to peer at the girl beside her, and smiled.  

“Thank you child.  Eat with me,” Melisandre asked.  The novice blinked and gave a tremulous smile.  It may have been her first such invitation, though it would not be the last.   The girl was a beauty.  Dark curls tumbled over her eyes and struggled to spring free from the braid she’d work them into.  Offering the cup to the girl first, Melisandre took a crust of bread from the platter and ripped it in two.   

“How long have been a novice child?”  The girl looked up from the cup, dark eyes wide.  She hurriedly placed the cup down.  

“Two years Priestess.  I am to follow Joqo and Mireen to teach the slaves,” her voice was rich, but still young.   

“And how many name days have you?” 

“Twenty, Priestess,” the girl replied.  “Though my name day is soon.”  At Melisandre’s offer, she took half of the bread.  She nibbled on it, one piece at a time, nerves showing themselves in every motion.  

“Do you regret your choice to become one of the Lord’s servants?  For it was a choice, was it not?  To come to the temple and become a servant of R’hllor?”

“Regret?” the novice’s voice squeaked on the word.  “How could I regret becoming one of the Lord’s chosen?  The Lord healed my mother and father.  He saved my family.  One day, the Lord may see fit for me to do the same for another family.” She beamed with pride.  Melisandre patted the hands that had fisted themselves so earnestly and smiled to reassure her.  

“I mean no harm.  Some novices shudder at the long years of training.  Before I left to go on my mission for the Lord, it was my task to find those who needed help.”

A warmth appeared at her shoulder and Melisandre looked up into Shanaz’s thin face.  She had slid a cowl over her hair, in spite of the heat of the fire.  

“Leave off the novice and come speak with us,” the other woman asked before moving off.  Melisandre rose, dusting her hands, and gave one last look at the young one.  It was so long since her first years here.  Had she too been lit with the same fire for the Lord?  She couldn’t remember.  Perhaps it made no difference, she mused as she followed Shanaz down the long corridor.   

The Lord required servants.  Whether or not she believed with the same unshakeable fervor as before did not signify.  The Lord was real.  And the night was dark without Him.  

* * *

Chalk, stark white and bright, lay upon Kinvara’s open palm.  She tilted a hand to roll it gently from her fingers down to the juncture at her wrist and then reversed the motion before the chalk could fall to the floor.  

At the noise of their footsteps, she clenched her hand closed around the piece and raised her head to look at them.  Shanaz paused for a moment and moved to the side, joining the others. Melisandre inclined her head briefly and waited.  There no was hint of what the others had reported to be seen on her face.  But if the Lord had seen fit to bless her, then perhaps all would fall out as it should.  

“You do not appear, even yet.  Although some among us think we have seen a great white wolf with flames for eyes.  Is this something you have seen?” Kinvara spoke after a moment.  

Melisandre nodded, “It is the sigil of Jon Snow’s family.  He keeps the beast beside him to change skins with...” she trailed off considering her next words.  “Was there more that was seen?  Surely, you must have seen the way the darkness is gathering to the west.”

The rustle of robes as her fellows moved in response to her words was loud, though Melisandre ignored it.  She stepped closer to Kinvara, resolved suddenly to not let their past closeness affect her any longer.  She pushed Stannis and the all the horror that lay beneath the surface of her every waking thought aside and spoke firmly, unequivocally, “I cannot be the only one to have seen the face that looms out of the darkness.”

She searched the faces of her fellows, hoping that one of them might give something away.  Before the Lord had taken away her sight and narrowed her focus to the bones, the face in the tree had haunted her.  It lay at the center of a storm of those black carrion eaters the Westerosi thought they had tamed.  Could it only be her that had seen the face? 

There was a movement from the one of the group.  Joqo shifting on his feet, spoke, “I have seen the storm you speak of.  But the Lord did not show me how we were to combat it.”  Some of the others nodded, agreeing.  Melisandre noted them, pleased at least that they hadn’t seen nothing.  

“And was there more besides the wolf and the storm?  Did none of you see the great white tree that sits there in Westeros?  With the face of a man?”  Melisandre asked, still hoping that it was not only her that had seen the monstrosity.  

While at Castle Black, she had seen the trees of Old Gods the Northerners still worshipped.  She had sneered at them, amused.  Even so far north, so close to where the Other lay, the barbarians worshipped the wrong gods.  Mingling with the Black Brothers there had given the proof of something she’d yet to see in life.  The weeping faces of the trees.  She heard tales of them.  But to see them… To watch as the sap, blood red as the gem around her throat, seeped from the chasm carved in its face had sent a chill down her spine.

The men, many of them not of the North, were justified in their fear of them.  There was power in the trees.   And it was only after coming North that the Lord had shown her a vision, clear and gleaming, of a man with a thousand eyes ensconced within one of these heart trees.   

The trees were of the North and as old in power as the Other.  And if only she had seen the threat those trees represented, then once more she would leave her home and go to battle.    

“I have told you what I see for you in the flames.  There is nothing like what you speak of.  Just the great storm and the wolf.  No men in trees like the Westerosi have deified,” Kinvara drew her attention once more, “but your fervor finds purchase, sister." 

“Since we have all seen something to the north, it is possible that what you say is true. And even if it isn’t, the Mother of Dragons is in the north and there are those here in Essos who work against her."

“And so?" Melisandre asked.  

“Even before your arrival, some of our believers in Pentos, in Braavos, in Slavers Bay had heard whispers of a plot to remove the Mother of Dragons from her rightful place. Until you had arrived, we had not been sure what tack to take. Yet now, we are sure. The Lord has spoken and the way is clear.”

“A fleet approaches from Meereen and you will join it.  An emissary from the one true god would not be turned away, not when she promises to speed their trip and guard their way, to cure their ills and make them prosper in battle,” Kinvara smiled.  

“By the time you arrive in Westeros, they will be believers, sister. You, and the novices we shall send with you, will make sure of that.  Every peril you save them from will be by the grace of the Lord, and by the time you and they find land in Westeros they will be ready to fight for their Mother against all her enemies.”

* * *

 

No rest for the aged and infirm, not in the house of the Lord, Melisandre reminded herself.  The novices the other priests had remanded into her care were true novices and needed every bit of her time and attention. 

None of them standing there shuffling before her plucking at their deep red robes had reached over fifty name days.  There was an ache somewhere behind her breastbone as she considered them.  It worsened when she considered what would be introducing them to. To preach to the masses of suffering slaves, who only wished for freedom and salvation was another experience entirely from tricking thousands of experienced mercenaries. 

For the possibility was high that her visions were true, and if that were so, there was no end for her but death.  And soon.  All of which that the ache of guilt would most like never fully leave her.  Not til her service was done.

But she was loyal.  And heartache would never stop her from following the Lord’s will.  For Kinvara had not acknowledged that which was most key to this fight.  The key to the old powers, that the Other must be drawing his strength from— the trees.   

They must be done away with.  And since her sister had been kind enough to give her young ones to work with, she could still find a way to play her part, as the Lord demanded.  She could set fire to those barbarous relics and burn out whatever strange golem lurked within them.  Drive him into the light of the Lord and defeat him.  

Then, she could rest.  

Melisandre sighed, raising her eyes to the group arrayed before her.  Untested but fervent.  There was no help for it.  

She raised a hand and laid it, beguilingly, gently upon the gem that rested there.  

“Without overmuch time, we must begin with the study of shadows.”  


	14. Chapter 14

Where the strength came from, it was always difficult to tell.  Was it from Father?  Or her lady Mother?  Even now, when she wanted to lay flat on the stone flags and weep with exhaustion, here she was upright.  Working while Jon and Arya played, and Bran was ill.  

She rose, stretching her arms above her head and reached over to remove the cloth from Bran’s head.  Wringing it and dipping it once more into the chilled bowl of water by his bedside and laying it across his brows let her feel like she was at least helping him in some way.  Even if it was make work, it was better than nothing.  

She supposed that Arya and Jon taking time to train themselves was better than sitting by Bran’s sickbed fidgeting.  Their skill with a blade might mean life or death for them, all of them.

Besides, Sansa couldn’t fault them, not truly.  Fighting was yet the thing they had in common now that years and experiences had divided them.  If they could only rekindle what they once were through the excuse of beating each other bloody, Sansa wasn’t going to stop them.  

Sitting at Bran’s beside that morning, however, it was a sore test of her patience not to run outside and grab them both by an ear and yank them to where they were needed.  Instead, she had finished a new cap for the Hound, met with Gendry to tell him of Daenerys’ agreement to the idea, finished planning for the feast that would precede the moot tomorrow, all without leaving Bran’s side.  Even so, he did not wake.  

The night previous, he had been lucid for a time, though still feverish.  He’d asked for Jon and looked as though he were near to boiling over with frustration when Sansa had told him that he’d ridden out with the maester to check on the folk living in the town.  Before he’d fallen asleep once more, he’d asked her to tell Jon to remember the eagle.  She hadn’t understood why and Bran would not tell her.  

Now her brother was sleeping, though fitfully.  Unable to truly rest, even as ill as he was.  As she made to sit again and gather up the next batch of papers needing her review, Maester Wolkan stepped through the open door.  He pushed it closed and bobbed a slight bow to her before bending over Bran.  He laid the cloth aside and rested a hand on his forehead.  Frowning, he pulled a horn of wood from a pocket and placed it against Bran’s chest.  With the other end pressed within his own ear, he listened for a long moment, face screwed up in concentration. 

After long moments, he pulled away, frown deepening the lines on his face.  He rubbed a hand over his scalp and then spoke, “My lady, he is improving I promise you.  But he is not well yet.  Young Samwell and I will make him a plaster to help his breathing.”  Sansa watched as he tried to smile reassuringly.  “You have been here all through the night, my lady.  Will you not take some breakfast?”

“Thank you Maester.  I’m well enough to hear whatever else it is that worries you,” Sansa replied.

He tilted his head, as though thinking, “My lady, the young lord is afflicted below the waist as you know.  Although I, and many others, have studied persons with his condition, we still do not understand why in many cases such minor illnesses seem to affect them as they do.  In you or I, a cough and fever might be gone within days, especially while we are young.  But for him, the case is different.  We must be careful to keep him warm and still and away from the bad air of the outdoors.”

“Maester Wolkan, my brother prefers to pray in the godswood.  Is the cold perhaps a reason for his illness?”  Sansa asked.  She looked up as the door to the room opened.  Gilly stepped through, Sam close on her heels.  

“Oh.  Good morning Lady Sansa.  We thought we would come sit with Bran for a bit while Jon and Lady Arya are out and about.  You don’t mind do you?” Sam asked.  He smiled at her, eyebrows raised.  

Sansa had learned by now to understand Sam fairly well.  She wondered, not for the first time, if Bran had been quite right to suggest that Sam would be able to take on the duty of being Lord of Horn Hill, much less Lord Paramount.  Sam, for all of his genius, was terrible at hiding his thoughts, and if she could tell, certainly others would be able to see through him.

Nonetheless she nodded, “Thank you Sam.  The Maester had just said much the same.  I’ll go to the hall right now.”  She rose, gathering her papers and yarn into her basket and turned for the door.  

“I’ll walk with you to the hall, my lady,” Sam offered.  He held open the door and shuffled after her.  When they were a ways, he whispered, “I was in the rookery this morning, my lady.  Ser Davos received a missive from the Wall and he’s taken it to Jon.  And you’ve received one from Lord Manderly.”  He paused, tugging on a sleeve.  The scroll popped free and he tucked it into her basket.

“Also, the Queen is at table right now.”  Sansa stopped to look at him, an eyebrow raised.  

“I thought you might wish to know,” Sam smiled and bowed slightly before turning back the way they’d come.

“Thank you Sam,” Sansa called down the hall after him.  She considered for a moment going back to her room, laying on her bed and reveling in the decadence of napping during the day.  Then she sighed, decision made and turned to push open the door to the hall.  

* * *

 _Two hedge knights well on their way back to Kings Landing.  No sign of the Iron Fleet.  Some worsening cold, but the shipping trade was still possible.  And furs were in high demand._   

The report from Manderly was strange in ordinariness.  Having it rest there in the basket by her feet had nearly driven Sansa mad with frustration.  But to read it was a disappointment after the long wait.  

Daenerys, Ser Jorah, Missandei, and Varys had all been taking their meal and not a moment went by that the Queen did not bring up Kings Landing.  The only thing that had made the meal something approaching worthwhile was listening to Missandei’s diverting explanation of the origin of the differences in the Westerosi accent between regions of the East, West, and North.  

That the mundane nature of the report was so obvious meant that there was something more going on.  Something she couldn’t see without Bran.  She leaned back in her chair, hands stretched before her.  

While Bran was ill, they could not depend on his eyes to show them the board.  Instead, she would need to use other eyes.  Sansa called to her guards, “I’ll need a runner to find Ser Davos, if you would.”

“Aye, my lady.  And Lady Arya is here to see you.”

“Send her in.”

* * *

“My sister tells me that Jon told them about the Wall, the dragons, and of the possibility for Valyrian steel swords for their houses and they still grew cross?”

“Well, yes my lady.  He put it before them plain as you like. They’re all hard men, but they don’t lack for brains.  Even so, such a fuss they kicked up,” Davos replied.  He gestured to one of her chairs and seated himself when she nodded.  

He leaned forward toward her, more agitated than usual.  “I know Jon Snow for a plain-spoken man, and usually this is in his favor.  But Cerwyn and Glover are rabble-rousers my lady.  That lot doesn’t respond to reason.  And Royce is a prig, pardon me saying.” 

Sansa tucked her hands into her sleeves.  She was tired and cold and angry.  And the day was not even close to being half over.  She’d said to Arya that she hoped it was just a matter of giving them something they wanted.  But perhaps they were truly afraid.  

“Jon once told me that Father used to say that a man can be brave only when he is afraid.”

Davos peered at her for a moment.  “He was perhaps one man in a thousand then.  Most men cannot bring themselves to be brave.  The fear gets them by the back of the neck and freezes them in place.”

Sansa nodded slowly.  What he said rang true.  Petyr had said himself that there was no true steel left in the North.  Whatever his faults had been, he had rarely been wrong when it came to understanding people.  

There was a way to bring them to heel, if only she wasn’t too worn to think of it.  She glanced at Ser Davos.  If the tales were true, and one glance at his right hand showed her they were, then he was one man in a thousand too.  

“What would you do, Ser Davos?” Sansa asked quietly.  She remembered telling him once, at Castle Black, that he could not know anything of the North or its people.  But that had been bluster and desperation to convince herself and Jon.

She flushed a little when he smiled.  He remembered too, it seemed.  His words were bracing though.  “Continue, my lady, as you’ve begun.  Leaving off everything else, they’re smart enough to throw their weight behind you, the old besoms.  You needn’t put the fear of the gods into them, leave that to Jon Snow.” 

He paused, brow crinkling.  “And don’t let them get anything out of you either.  If we win, and we might, they’ll be in power for years.  No need to concede anything to them to get their support.”

Sansa laughed a little.  “That is how these things work, Ser.  Nothing comes free.  Especially not loyalty.  Not in these times.  Or did you have a different experience with Stannis?”

“No my lady I did not,” he replied.  “They came to him because of fear, most of those lords.  Fear of what his red sorceress could do to them.”

“Northerners are different it would seem.  They prefer to revolt and die, rather than consider placating an enemy.”

“Then perhaps you and Jon should tell them the truth about Daenerys,” Davos suggested, his voice halting. 

“The truth being what?” Sansa asked.  She gripped her fingers together where they lay hidden in her sleeves.  

“About the Queen being in love with Jon.  She hasn’t hardly met any of them, so they don’t know how she looks at him.  But spend five minutes with the two of them and it’s plain.”

It was worth considering.  They could not, being Northerners, have it be said of them that they too knelt before the dragons.  The King Who Knelt was remembered that way for a reason.  Their desire for independence and freedom from outsiders was in their blood.  They followed the Starks because doing so gave them freedom within their domain.  A Targaryen Queen promised an end to those freedoms.  Unless she was a Targaryen no more. 

“I thank you, Ser Davos,” Sansa said.  Even to her own ear, she sounded worn through.  “I did not call you here for that alone, I regret.”  She unlaced her fingers and plucked the missive from Manderly from where it lay, rolled up.  

Davos reached forward to take it from her grasp and read it through slowly.  “The hedge knights are that sellsword and the Kingslayer, of course.  This all is fairly simple, my lady.  Is there something you wish me to see?”

“Lord Manderly is a smart man and loyal in his own way.  He’s removed himself from Winterfell, although I’m sure he has some of our people paid to listen and watch for him.  He guards, as his family has for generations, our port.  There ought to be something happening there.  The absence of any trouble mentioned means something is amiss,” Sansa said.  

“You wish me to go and find out what it is?”

“I do,” Sansa replied, “Think on it.  I may be wrong.  But we cannot afford to be blind.”  He nodded in response, and rose slowly.  

“I’ll go.  Perhaps there’s nothing, but Cersei Lannister is no one to sneeze at.” 

“Thank you, Ser Davos,” Sansa said and stood, extending him her hand.  He grasped her forearm lightly, and they nodded to each other.   

He took his leave after that and Sansa considered for a moment.  She had no wish to seek out Glover or Lord Royce.  But it had to be done.  Her eyes fell on her basket.  The cap she’d knitted lay folded on top.  Perhaps Lyanora could give it to him on her behalf.  She leaned over, grasping it lightly and made for the door.  

* * *

“My lords, thank you for joining me.  I know you all have tasks that need seeing to,” Sansa spoke softly.  She sat, waiting for them to quiet and turn to her.  She’d gathered them in Jon’s solar, deliberately, and had seen the way their eyes had darted around the room as they’d entered.  

They’d been worried that Jon would be there too. It made her feel somewhat better.  If they were yet afraid of him, then she had something to build on.  

“Our King told me of your worries, and asked that I speak with you, while he attends to Lady Hornwood’s need,” she paused for breath, watching their faces, “You must fear the worst.”

Glover looked sharply at her from where he stood near the fire.  He took a step closer, saying, “Fear?  We are not afraid Lady Stark.  We are disgusted.  We’ve gambled on a forsworn bastard, and look what he does with the first taste of power.  He falls in bed, like his brother did, with a foreigner,” he turned aside, bearded jaw jutting forward.  

He looked like nothing so much as a pouting child.  The other men there, Cerwyn most vigorous of them all, chorused their agreement.  

“He’s brought her armies with him, as though he cannot see what will happen if she turns against us!  He’s a blind, addled fool.  And now _dragons.”_

Sansa replied, picking her words with care, “Dragons.  The sole reason for the Targaryen dynasty's tyranny over the realm.  And at our King’s command, they will come flying to defend the North against an enemy we have no true means to fight.”

Glover turned to toward her once more, still looking recalcitrant.  “Are you not curious, my lords, to know the reason that Daenerys Targaryen brought her armies north but has asked nothing in return?  Her armies, even these Dothraki we have heard tales of, are well-controlled.  The Free Folk have been more of a plague than the Dothraki.”

“Now the King asks her to bring her dragons, and she agrees.  Do you think Jon so ineffectual, so brainless that he would have risked demanding such a thing if he did not have a plan?”  Sansa could feel the color rising in her cheeks and did not trouble to try to hide her agitation.  

“Come now my lords.  What woman such as she, with dragons and armies of her own would obey a man so completely unless there was a reason for it?” Sansa waited for them to catch on, smiling gently at them.  Inviting them to catch her meaning.  

When, after a few long minutes, Lord Royce’s doughy face lit up, Sansa breathed a sigh imperceptibly.

“Lady Sansa, you cannot mean the woman is in love with him!”   

“That is precisely what I mean,” Sansa replied.  The men murmured amongst themselves for a moment, thrown suddenly into a situation that was familiar and yet bewildering.  Marriage between two houses to make a profit for both was customary.  

Here at the end of the world, with the stories their wet-nurses used to frighten them with come alive, to encounter something so mundane as marriage was confusing.  The mood in the room was markedly lighter suddenly.  After all, they could deal with a besotted girl better than they could a dragon queen.  

“And what does the King say, Lady Stark?  Would he marry and make a Targaryen our Queen?” The question was a barbed one.  Ryswell was another frightened soul it seemed.  

“That which we must remember my lords, is that the King is only such at my pleading.  Elsewise, I would still be a hostage of Ramsay Bolton,” Ryswell turned his eyes up to the ceiling Sansa noted but did not let it stop her, "you all would be subject to his obvious madness, and Jon would be serving at the Wall.  He broke his oath for me, for all of you, for all the people of the North.”  

“If he marries, it will be for the same reason.  Not for personal gain, but to better serve you,” Sansa rose, pushing herself to her full height.  She was of an eye with many of the men in the room.  “Do any of you doubt his resolve?  If so, make yourself heard.”

There was a general murmur.  None was as willing now, to speak ill of him.  Not now that they thought they understood what Daenerys was.  

“Then, my lords, heed him when he calls for your support.  He will heed your concerns if you have them, I swear it.  And remember that though he is a bastard, he was raised by Ned Stark.  And my father was honorable to his last breath.”

She nodded to them in dismissal and watched them leave.  Cerwyn managed to grasp and kiss her hand before he left.  Sansa forced herself to not jerk her hand away.  Once they were gone, she sank bonelessly into the chair.  

Sansa tilted her head til she could see the flames.  They were primed and ready for him.  Ready for whatever choice he would make.  A true marriage or a sham.  This was as far as she could take him. As much as all these old men professed to be loyal to her— they were still men.  Women, even here in the North, were still not masters of their own fate.  To do more than hint that Jon might take Daenerys to wife would be more than they could swallow.  

Although Jon had become used to leaving all the politicking to her, and even if she wished to, she could not do it all alone.  Arya was restricted still, being the younger sister and without a faction of her own, and it seemed Bran was never going to be consistently interested.  Even if Jon did not wish to be king, he had to do his part.  

Perhaps now she could rest.  Davos was agreed.  Arya could be counted on to realize what the game was without being told.  Sam and Gilly would see to Bran.  It wouldn’t hurt, just this once, to take to her bed and sleep.  

* * *

“My lady... Lady Sansa,” Sansa rolled over, fighting to ignore whoever’s voice it was.  

“My lady, the Hornwood party is here.  You asked me to wake you once they’d arrived.  You must get up.”  Sansa sighed, peeling open one eye.  She was warm now at least, if not particularly rested.  

Lyanora and Brienne waited next to her bedside, with varying degrees of impatience clear on their faces.  “I’m awake.”

“Excellent.  Lady Arya and the King and the Hound are all returned safely.  And the Hound said to give you his thanks,” Lyanora rattled off, tugging back the bedcovers and pulling her bodily upright.  

“Thank you.  I really can get out of bed myself,” Sansa replied.  She made to pull herself out of her maid’s grasp and was surprised when Brienne stepped forward.  

“I have heard of great ladies napping during the day, Lady Sansa.  Neither your mother, your sister, nor you ever struck me as ones who would do such a thing.  And your maid tells me you haven’t been resting much at all since your brother became ill.  You’ll make yourself ill as well, which we cannot afford.” 

While she spoke, Lyanora released her hair from its braid and ran a brush through it.  “As you asked, we will bring you to see Lady Hornwood, but then we shall ask the Maester to make you a tonic to help you sleep.  We need you well, my lady.”

Sansa dithered a moment, considering whether or not fighting the two of them was a good use of her energy.  But it was true that she felt sluggish.  Davos had given her the answer to a problem she should’ve been able to solve easily.  Just this morning, she remembered wanting to box Jon and Arya’s ears for practicing their swordplay.  It was not like her.  

She drew in a deep breath.  “Alright.”  She could see them peering at each other in surprise and smiled.  “I am tired.  But it is only for tonight.  Is Gilly still with Bran?”

“Yes, my lady.  The plaster seems to be working well. He’s hardly coughed at all since they put it on.  The Maester says he’ll make another one in the morning.”  Sansa nodded.  Lyanora finished the braid she’d been working on, twisted them all together, and gave her hair a pat.  She rose, gathering up the gown Sansa had stripped out of earlier and held it up.  

Sansa stood and let the other woman dress her as though she was a child.  It was almost comforting.  “And how does our friend?”

The maid chuckled low in her throat.  “He’s quite the funny man, my lady.  He doesn’t say much about her, but he’s always going on about he’s a good judge of character.”  She stepped back, to let Sansa adjust the dress to her liking. 

“It’s still better than before my lady.  Never fear.  He’s quite a good lover.”  

Sansa looked closely at her, hoping that her maid was not saying only what she thought Sansa wanted to hear.  “Then I thank you.  Keep listening.”  

She looked over her shoulder at Brienne, who was peering at both of them with consternation.  “Don’t worry Brienne.  She’s quite alright.”  Sansa waited for the knight to nod before she spoke again, “Shall we go down?” 

She led the way, feeling as though her mind was restored even as her body continued to feel heavy.  Outside, she spied Arya, who acknowledged her with a nod before disappearing.  Whatever was the matter, Arya wouldn’t appreciate her prying.  

Sansa turned her face to the new arrivals with a practiced smile on her lips.  The men at arms barreled past her, shouting greetings, their faces caked with snow.   Behind she could see the Hornwood party, the servants’ livery emblazoned with the black moose head.  Lady Hornwood was being handed down from her horse by two grooms.  

She had the look of the Manderly’s, and with any luck she would continue to be as her cousin Lord Wyman was, a loyal and adept friend.  Bundled against the snows, she trundled forward and extended a gloved arm toward Sansa.  

“Lady Stark,” she called and grasped Sansa's shoulder, “Thank the gods your brother came to guide us the rest of the way.  It’s been long years since I rode to Winterfell.”  Sansa moved to quickly shuffle the other woman indoors, the press of her hand was worrisome.  As they made their way across the yard, she made to speak, but paused as Lady Hornwood murmured low, “I see no Dragon Queen that all the people are gossiping about.  Is she here in truth?”

“She is here, my lady, and sworn to give us aid against the Night King,” Sansa replied quietly.  “The King will wish to speak with you and the others before he presents her formally tomorrow.”

Hornwood nodded, still leaning her weight upon Sansa heavily.  “A Targaryen here by invitation.  Dragons in the world again.  The Night King.  It’s quite enough to be going on with.”  

Sansa settled her in a chair and took thought for a moment.  The servants bustled around them, helping Lady Hornwood remove her cloak and riding gear.  She was not wrong.  It was enough to be going on with.  Perhaps that was the true reason for her exhaustion.  Not illness of the body, but simple exhaustion of the mind.  

There was no end to her duty, but it was not as though Father and Mother had led joyless lives.  When this was over, there would be a chance for laughter to take root in the halls of Winterfell again.  There would be room for more than fleeting happiness.  Perhaps, she thought with amusement, surveying the Hound’s journey from the entrance to the hearth, shaggy head doffed by the cap she’d knitted, there would be puppies.  

She looked down at the older woman, smiling slightly, “When I was small, I thought our House words, were just that.  Words.  After the horror my family has been through— all of our Northern families have been through— my Father’s words bring me comfort.  Winter is coming.  But we will endure.”


	15. Chapter 15

It was troublesome, moreso than he wished to admit.  Everything that he had been before he’d died: turncloak, oathbreaker, and bastard, was as true to the outside eye as it had ever been.  But the world reacted to the truth in a manner wildly different.  He was a King, not the shame of Winterfell.  He was a leader of men, and he had only to look around him to find a friend.  It could have gone straight to his head were it not for the fact that he hated it.  

Sam had made him Lord Commander, to protect the Wall and all their brothers.  Jon had been glad of it then, even as his pleasure at being tested had shown him just how inexperienced he was.  But he had been proud of himself and thought that Father would’ve been proud too.  All those lessons in letters, in history, in maths had been worth their weight in gold.  As much as the swordplay with Robb, Jory, Ser Rodrik, and even Theon had been.   

But no matter how he struggled to kill the boy, none of it had kept him from misreading his men.  Just as all of Father’s honor hadn’t kept his head from rolling off the block. 

Yet here he was once more.  Serving the realm and Sansa, though nothing would ever make him admit the last out loud.   It was for her that he had decided to live.  To fight for.  He had thought he would be content, if she were safe and happy.  If Winterfell could be a haven for her, instead of a nightmare, he’d thought he could withstand anything.  It was for her, even more than his smoldering desire to be a true Stark that had led him to take the North when the lords offered it.   

Yet, even before Bran revealed the truth, he’d found himself wanting more. Wanting to be free of duty. Free of responsibility. Free to make his own choice.  A true one this time, not one born of bitterness and false pride.  The choice he wished to make would tear down everything he and Sansa had built.  It would destroy her, and Arya, and Bran.  That he could not bear.   

The brazen blast of a horn jolted him from his reverie.  Arya glanced at him, the light of the torches glinting off her dark eyes.  Hers were the same as his.  Same as her father’s and, Jon supposed, his mother’s.  He nodded at her and she turned her face away and rode off ahead through the opening gates.  He watched her, still feeling around the edges of the thing she had shared.   

It had opened up a wound that he hadn’t know was festering.  To marry for love was something he’d never expected to do.  Not with Ygritte, for sure and certain.  Daenerys’ beauty and fire drew him to her, and made the lie he was perpetuating a smidgen easier.  But it was not love.  Perhaps death had changed him, that such a silly thing like love could matter so much.   

Jon levered himself down from his horse.  A groom ran up to take the reins and led the animal away.  Jon stood still in the middle of the chaos, letting the people swirl about him.  Sansa, with snow melting in her hair, was helping Lady Hornwood inside.  Jon followed, feeling suddenly lighter.  He was in time to hear her speak the Stark words and see the effect she had on the hall.  She was no firebrand like Daenerys, nor wild and free and intoxicating as Ygritte had been.  She was radiant even so.   

He hung back from approaching her, as the servants bustled about, hoping to speak with her alone before she retired, but a murmured greeting from behind him caught his attention.  Over his shoulder was Lady Brienne.  She didn’t smile but spoke quietly, “Your Grace, I had hoped to have a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” Jon replied, turning to face her fully.  She settled herself with her hands braced on her sword belt, clearly turning over her words before speaking. “My lady has been greatly exhausted these weeks by her duties,” she spoke baldly.  Jon followed her gaze and noted Sansa’s maid come her mistresses’ side and escort her out of the hall.  

“Just today, I know she has had at least ten meetings with various members of the household, not to mention the blacksmith, the lords, and even now she’s climbed from her bed to come greet Lady Hornwood.  All the while, tending to the needs of her family.”  Jon waited, a little wary.  The hands resting on the swordbelt had tightened until the woman’s knuckles were white.  It was not likely that she’d hit him, but she was sworn to Sansa and Arya, after all.   

“She needs  _rest_ , Your Grace.  Even for a day, or she’ll work herself into the grave before the White Walkers are within a hundred miles of Winterfell,” Brienne glared down at him, mouth thinned, still gripping her swordbelt.    

Jon studied her and then spoke as gently as he knew how, “Lady Sansa is her own mistress.  If I could, I would wrap her in wool and send her and Arya and Bran safely away to hide in a castle in Dorne.  Were I to try such a thing or even ask her to rest, she would refuse,” he stopped, smiling a little.  “I’ve heard it said that Starks are hard to kill.  Sansa is as much a Stark as all those who came before her, despite her Tully looks.  But, I thank you for caring for her so well.” 

Brienne grimaced, looking away from him.  Around them the hall was more than three quarters empty.  Jon ventured a question, “Tell me Lady Brienne, did Sansa tell you how the meeting with the lords went?” 

“That she did not, Your Grace.  You will need speak with her yourself.  Though I suggest it wait until the morning,” Brienne replied, mouth forming a severe line.  Jon nodded, once, and watched her walk off.  

Free once more, he glanced in the direction Sansa had taken back to her chambers.  A moments brief thought and then his feet were carrying him in her direction.  It was akin to an itch that had to be scratched.  For the first time in what felt like interminable weeks, he was free of an evening.   Even if she fell asleep while talking to him, it was better than nothing.    

The halls were empty, as he wound his way up to her chamber.  In front of her door, he raised his hand to knock and stopped hurriedly as the door pulled open.   

“Seven hells!” Lyanora, Sansa’s maid jerked her head away from where his fist still hung in the air. She huffed a short breath, chagrin clear in the nervous smile she gave him.  “Apologies Your Grace.  Were you wishing to see my lady?” 

Jon forced his hands down to his sides, mindful of the fact that his fingers ached to flex and move.  Arya was right; was a compulsion.  One that served him ill.   

“Lady Brienne has told me how she fares,” Jon began carefully, “But I must speak with her regardless.”  He stepped away from the door, gesturing her to move into the hallway.  She stirred and shifted slowly, a frown fixed in place.  “Let the guards know we are not to be disturbed.”   

He walked through and pushed the door shut before the maid could say much else.  He felt strangely guilty as he did so, but the need to see her just for a few moments outweighed the guilt.   

In her rooms the fire was still crackling in the grate and the sight of it gave him the confidence he needed to call her name, “Sansa? May I come in?” 

He heard a rustle, and then her voice beckoned him.  Jon strode through to her bedchamber.  He paused a moment to look at her.  Brienne was quite right.  She was exhausted.  The girl in the ragged grey cloak who’d appeared before him like an apparition from the past had looked like this before she’d gotten wrapped in his cloak and set in front of the fire.    

“Brienne told me you hadn’t been well,” he sat on the edge of the bed gingerly.  As close as they were now, to be in her bedchamber was still surprising in its intimacy.  It didn’t help that Sansa reached to grasp his hand.  The feel of her skin, the softness of her palm contrasting with the toughness of her fingertips made his stomach lurch.  

He gazed at her, concern warring with the sweetness of feeling her hand in his.  It was wrong to feel this.  No matter if they were cousins, not siblings.  No matter at all.  Her father had been the only father he would ever know.  

Jon squeezed the hand in his, the better to quell the rebellion within himself.  Sansa smiled up at him, just slightly, in the way she had now.  “Brienne and Lyanora were over-worried.  I stayed with Bran all of the evening before, and I’ve been working—,” 

“Working hard at everything.  Leaving nothing to chance.  Making sure I can’t be a noble fool and get us all killed, aye,” Jon interrupted.  He drew back his hand and folded them over each other.   

“I haven’t yet been to see Bran... I thought you might want to speak about Cerwyn and all the rest.” 

Sansa scoffed a laugh.  She pushed herself to sit higher, tossing her braid over her shoulder, a few wisps escaping to lay about her face.  Jon watched the bedcovers slip down from her shoulders to lay across her collarbones as she spoke, “I’ve hinted to them, the old fools, that you might marry Daenerys,” she paused and looked down before continuing more softly, “Petyr had suggested you might marry her.  He said you were both young and beautiful.  It would make sense to marry power to power.” 

Jon felt himself growing tense at her words. “I am loathe to do anything that  _Littlefinger_  thought I might do.  The idea of it is disgusting.”    

Sansa raised her eyes to his and flinched a little when she saw his expression.  “You and I know that we are not following the exhortations of that man from beyond the grave. You needn’t look so severe.”  Jon gave a little shrug, knowing as he did so that it was something Arya was prone to do.    

“In any case, you’ve set the table, is what you’re saying to me.  And now you want me to lead them to it,” Jon took a breath, feeling his heart racing, “I can do it.  And I will.”  He paused, laughing a little, “It will not be quite what they were expecting of me, but I think they will quite like the idea that their Northern bastard is using his cunning for their ends.”  Referring to himself as a bastard had lost all pain for a time, though with the knowledge of his true parentage, it had begun to chafe once more.  It seemed a disservice somehow to his mother, to say that she had birthed a bastard.   

“You’re no bastard,” Sansa replied.  “And even if you were, there is no need to... to denigrate yourself.  And I know that some of our bannermen see you for you are.  Not simply for who your father was or wasn’t.”   

She gazed at him, encouragingly, as though by her words alone she could undo a lifetime of thinking he was worth less than everyone else.  He smiled.  She did, in fact, have that power over him.  After a long quiet moment, Sansa dropped her eyes.  Jon stirred himself and rose.   

Voice a little hoarse, he spoke, “I won’t keep you from your rest any longer.  I just wanted you to know what would happen this evening.  The formal introduction will wait until tomorrow as you’ve arranged.” 

Sansa nodded in response, already sliding beneath her covers.  “Where will you speak to them?” 

“The godswood, before the heart tree,” Jon replied.  She chuckled low in her throat in response.  “A good choice.  Don’t forget to see to Bran before you gather them.  He had something to tell you.  About an eagle?” 

“Alright.  Sleep now.  I’ll see to the rest,” he hesitated a moment and then reached down to pull the quilts higher.  Sansa closed her eyes, contentedly, smile playing around the corner of her mouth.  It was a struggle not to lay a kiss upon her cheek, but he forestalled himself.  He was a bastard, in every sense of the word, to want to disturb her that way when finally, she was grown comfortable.  

He straightened and turned away to make for Bran’s chambers.  

 

* * *

“There you are Jon Snow,” Gilly said as he walked through Bran’s door.  Sam smiled at him from where he stood on the far side of Bran’s bed.  Bran gave a small smile too.  

“As I promised,” Jon replied.  Gilly nodded to him and then sailed off, her arms full of linens all smelling of unguent.  Whatever the plaster or poultice had been rankled, but it had Bran sitting up and no longer red-cheeked with fever so Jon could find no fault with it for that alone.  He laced his fingers together behind him as he stepped closer to the bed.  

“You look much better than this morning.  Are you feeling stronger?  If you are feeling well, I’d like your help with something this evening.”  Jon closed his mouth, feeling unaccountably warm and jittery.  It wasn’t like him to run on.   

“Oh no Jon.  He’s not to go out of doors quite yet.   The plaster did help, but he’s still on the mend,” Sam interrupted.  Jon glanced at him and then away, trying to steel himself against the thing it seemed he would need to ask.   

If Bran were well enough to go out of doors, that would have been best.  He was Ned Stark’s last trueborn son.  That carried weight, as did his travels beyond the Wall.  There were whispers among the folk in and around Winterfell now— that Bran could see the future, that he was a warg.  Rumors they may have been, but they were useful rumors.  Especially in these times, when dragons were real and so were the White Walkers.  Giving the North a magical talisman of their own could have helped them come to terms with Daenerys, or at least not resist while he ensured that Daenerys did not go astray.  But it seemed there would be no help for it.   

“I need a favor of you Sam,” Jon inflated his lungs briefly and then forced himself to go on.  “Tonight I plan to tell our bannermen that my dalliance with Daenerys Targaryen is a ruse.  When her dragons and her armies have helped us defeat the Night King, I will send her south to Kings Landing— to destroy our common enemy.”  Jon raised his head to meet Sam’s gaze.   

“What?”  Jon opened his mouth to reply, but Sam easily talked over him.  “You’re going to tell them?  That you’ve been lying to her  _and them_  all this while?” a pause, then he went on, “How do you expect them to believe that you can  _pretend_  while you’re... you’re together like that?” 

“I don’t think that’s of importance.  What matters Sam,” Jon leaned on the bed, pushing himself closer, “is that I need you to help me convince my bannermen that I haven’t condemned them to a terrible death by tricking her.”

“Of course it matters!  She’s your Aunt.  And she has dragons.  And if you give away the game like this, we’ll be dead.  Stabbed in the heart.  Or perhaps we’ll be hanged,” Sam hissed the reply.  Beads of sweat dotted his round face.   

“D’you have a better plan Sam?  Because I cannot afford to let them go on thinking that what they fear is true.  They’d kill me for that too.  As it is, it was a lucky thing that my raven declaring that I’d bent the knee never made it,” Jon replied, still bemused about that stroke of fortune.  

Bran spoke then, drawing both their eyes.  “Ah.  That was me.  Littlefinger gave it to Sansa, but she and I had already talked about Littlefinger’s true nature.  She burned it, and Arya made sure no copy survived anywhere in the castle.  Sansa could not believe it in any case.  Anything that came from Littlefinger was suspect, and I dared not tell her the truth.”

Jon looked at Bran closer then.  The long Stark face and the dark eyes so like his own.  It was the face of the brother he’d loved as a child, but the child he’d known would never have withheld a truth.  He’d hardly been able to tell a lie.  Jon reached out a hand and mussed the dark hair a little.

“Burdens are hard to carry alone.  That’s one of the reasons I must speak to our bannermen.  So they can share in the decision and see for themselves that this choice is the one that best serves them.  You needn’t bear up under burdens like that on your own.  You have us.  You’ve seen how I tell almost everything to you and Sam and the girls.”

Jon waited a moment, praying to any of the Old gods who were listening that he hadn’t made a misstep with the man who’d been his brother once.   

Bran replied slowly, “There is so much that I could tell you.  But if I speak, it is from a well of experience thousands of years deep.  I cannot see the future, but I can guess fairly well, what may happen if I speak a word at the wrong time.  I dare not confide in you, no matter how much I wish it.  I won’t have you paying the price for my weakness.” 

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, gathering up some of the bedclothes and wringing them between his hands.  “You are a man now, and must make a man’s decisions,” Sam glanced up into Jon’s face, grimacing for a moment, “I may be angry with Jon for what seems to me a foolhardy decision to trust his bannermen, but the root of my anger is that he did not think to ask my advice before making the decision.  A man, especially a ruler of men as you were born to be, must take advice.”

“And if Your Grace will take advice,” Sam said, his voice becoming scolding and sharp, “tell only a few.  Lady Lyanna, Lady Hornwood, Mazin, Manderly.  Perhaps Royce.  The rest are a danger to you, and all of us.”

“Sam,” Jon sighed and sat too.  “I trust you two in this room.  Davos, Tormund, Arya and Sansa.  Though the number of folk I trust is small, it remains that I serve the North.  To serve them well means that I must trust them with some things at least.  This is one of those things.” 

Jon reached over and laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder.  “I’m asking you to talk about Dickon’s murder, and I am sorry for it.  But I need them to understand the peril that we are in.  And if Bran is not well enough to help, then you are the only other person I can turn to.  No one else can make it real for them.”  He waited for what felt like an interminable minute for Sam to agree, and then stood.   

“Bran, rest tonight.  Tomorrow I’ll need your voice,” Jon said.  He wanted to press him to talk more.  To share how he felt, even if he could not share what he knew.  As he watched, his brother’s face grew still and remote again.  No longer Bran, but the Three Eyed Raven.   

“With me, Sam.  We’ll gather everyone to meet in the godswood, in front of the heart tree.  Bran will be able to see us well there.”

* * *

“It is late, I know.  Thank you for braving the cold.”  Jon looked around at all the faces.  Sam and Davos had arrived before he did and stood furthest away.  Lady Barbrey and Lady Donella stood beside to each other.  Not from any particular good feeling between them, but they were the only grown women there.  Lady Meera stood alone, halfway between them and the younger children.  Little Lyanna Mormont had taken Alys Karstark under her wing by the Maester’s account.  Those two stood beside the youngest one, Ned, wrapped in furs and looking as rotund as Tommen Lannister and Bran had been once.  Before all of the horror.  

The men clumped together in little groups.  All of them, excepting Lyanna, looked to him with some degree of trepidation.  These Northerners were not the same ones who’d risen for Robb.  The Lannisters and the Freys and the Boltons had seen to that.  Their ability to remain loyal, to follow a leader for love, had been ground to dust at the Red Wedding.  The battle for Winterfell had thrown off the threat of having a mad king of their own, but the punishing cost of war had been too dear for faith in the Starks to have been rebuilt so quickly. 

It did not help that the war they were embroiled in now was too vast and too terrible to be understood.  Instead of filling them with fire and making them want to defend their homes, they were nearly paralyzed with fear, most of them.   

Yet, they had read the reports of the Wall fallen at Eastwatch, of the mountain clans running for their lives from killing cold and the walking dead men that came with it.  Jon sighed, flexing his fingers.  He could not blame them for latching onto the one artifact of the whole affair that could be understood: Daenerys and her armies and her dragons.  

The more fearful amongst them had already been blistering his ear with their fears about the Dothraki from the moment it had been announced that they were coming up the kingsroad.  And their arrival, with their arakhs gleaming in the pale light of the sun had been no cause for joy for any of his sworn bannermen.  

Yet, Daenerys had controlled them well, a point in her favor.   More pressing to his mind was that their presence had given Jon the lucky effect of being a guard against another mutiny.  The numbers of her army, even discounting the Unsullied, vastly outweighed their own muster.  

Even so, they still were fulminating.  Jon flexed his fingers again and spoke, “The last time I spoke with my Uncle Benjen, he said these words to me: Cold winds are rising.” 

“You’ve heard the reports and seen the ravens.  The ramparts and fortifications are built and we are ready to make our stand my lords, my ladies,” Jon nodded to them, “Yet when I told some of your number that the last step, the key to the defense of the North, lay in the hands of Daenerys Targaryen, they baulked.”

Cerwyn stirred himself; he could be counted on to say whatever came to the top of his minds.  That was a curse some days, but this evening, Jon was glad that the man was so predictable.  “We did Your Grace and would again.  We rose for King Robb and he promised us that we would never kneel again to any Southron princeling,” he stopped himself, frowning, “Though I was without courtesy when I protested earlier, I say again that I will never countenance any threat to the freedoms he promised us.”

Jon replied, picking his way through Cerwyn’s words as though they were a field of knives, “I have asked few things of you my lords.  I learned from my brother’s mistakes.  He took your, sons and daughters, your uncles and aunts and faced them South to rescue your liege and his daughters.  If I had been free, I would have followed him, as so many of us did.  Because we loved him and we were  _loyal_  to the vision he had for the North.  Now, it is my honor to serve you as he did.  I wish to protect you and your freedoms just as he did.  This is why I have brought the South to you.  To defend you!”   

“Aye. You have.  But what she promises to do cannot come free Your Grace,” Lyanna Mormont replied.  “Every trader has his price.  Dragons will not come cheaply.  What will she ask?  Will she ask us to kneel?”

Jon faced her, the little girl who had done as much as anyone to put him in Robb’s place as King in the North. She never hesitated to put the screws to him, and Jon could not fault her for it.  

In that moment, from behind the rest, Sam’s voice rose.  The others turned to look at him.  

“My father was at the field of fire,” Sam began slowly, his voice quavering a bit, “Though he and I estranged, he was still my father. Daenerys obliterated his forces and the Lannisters’, my lords.”  He paused for a moment.  When he went on, it was obvious to all who listened that he was holding back tears.  His voice was choked with them.  

“When she had devastated them, she had the prisoners brought before her and told them to kneel and serve her.  My father and my younger brother Dickon wouldn’t kneel, and told her so.  She burnt them to crisps... My father’s bones will never rest beside his father’s.  My brother will never take his place as Lord of Horn Hill. My sister and my mother are there in the Reach with no one to protect them.”  

Silence, except for the wind that set the leaves of the heart tree talking, fell among them.  None of the lords seemed able to speak.  After a long moment, Jon judged the growing horror on their faces had reached a good enough point.   

“I told Cersei Lannister very recently that I try to be good to my word.  But which words are more important my lords?  The words I speak to a foreign invader come to steal away my home and all I hold dear?  Or the words I speak to you?  My family?”  He met their eyes, one by one.   

“I told her Daenerys could have my allegiance, my lords, because if I had not, I would be dead.  And so would all of you.  And your families.  Your castles would be puddles of molten rock.  Your lands would be blackened and desolate for generations.  There would be no more Northern kingdom.”

Jon took a breath, wondering whether it was right to make this leap.  He wavered only a moment.  “Lady Sansa will have told many of you today that a way out of this problem remains to us.  Lord Manderly and his son know it already,” Jon gestured at him.  Wylis bowed, and straightened his back.  Proud, Jon supposed, to be in on the plot.  

“Lady Sansa told us that Daenerys Targaryen appears to be in love with you.  She would know these things, of course, but a woman’s ways are different than a man’s,” Royce curiously strident voiced declared.  “To marry her would join her strength to ours, but there is no guarantee that she would accept the North as a separate kingdom.”

“That’s so, Lord Royce, and while I have every intention of asking Daenerys to be my wife, I do not intend for the ceremony to take place.  To do so would give her a claim.  And that we cannot afford,” Jon paused, gauging them all. This was the final step and the most delicate.  They might agree but come away of the mind that their King was entirely too cunning.  Or worse still, that he had no proper feeling about the Lannisters.  

“You all will have heard that the Kingslayer was seen here in Winterfell,” Jon began.  “He has sworn himself to my brother Bran, as atonement for his first crime against the North: his attempt to murder one of Ned Stark’s trueborn sons.  My brother has commanded him, at my request, to bring word to Cersei that Daenerys’ gains in the South are poorly protected.  The majority of her army is here, her ships are in our port at White Harbor.”

“Daenerys will have no choice, once the word reaches her, but to fly to Kings Landing and put an end to the Lannisters.”

“You plot with the  _Lannisters!_ ”  Lord Dormund interrupted, voice nearly screeching with disgust.   Jon stared him down, and ignored the grumbled invective he muttered to Ryswell beside him.  When the man was silent again, Jon spoke.   

“I told you before that we needed powerful allies, my lords.  I have brought as powerful ally as can be found who has pledged to fight for us to defeat the Night King.  But I know her mind.  She will fight for us and then she will demand that we kneel.  Before she can turn and have her dragons swallow us whole, I must find a way to point her elsewhere.   And where else can we find an enemy that a Targaryen would be glad to destroy more than in Kings Landing?”

“In three hundred years, the Maesters of Westeros learned some few things about dragons,” Jon replied, “and we have had firsthand accounts of the Field of Fire where Cersei Lannister’s forces unleashed a weapon strong enough to bring down a dragon.  Not only this, but through Jaime Lannister we have a man trained at the Citadel who can find us the means to build one of our own.”

Jon swept his gaze across all of them. The young ones were beginning to shiver, but their eyes had been locked on him throughout, fearful and anticipatory by turns. Hornwood and Dustin were study in contrasts. Old lady Hornwood looked positively bloodthirsty; her round face was not only red-cheeked from the cold, Jon was sure. Dustin had no love for him nor Sansa and remained thin lipped and skeptical. The men were not yet sure how they felt. 

“A chance is before us,” Jon urged them, “We have the opportunity to free ourselves of an old enemy and a potential one all in one stroke. But to do this thing, no one outside of you here can know about this plan. If one hint of it escapes, we are all dead twice over.  Knowing that... will you join me?”

“Oh it is dangerous, aye,” came Lord Mazin’s reedy voice from behind his impressive grey beard.  “But what songs they will write about us lads!  Our children and their children and on and on down the line will remember us here this night in a hundred songs.  The night the North threw off the yolk of dragons and the Night King and Southron rule.”

“And if we fail?” Cerwyn asked, brows clenched together and hand tight around his sword hilt. 

“We die, one way or another.  But that is assured no matter what we choose,” Jon stepped closer to him and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.  “Men don’t live forever, no matter what they do.”  Cerwyn bobbed his head jerkily in agreement, even as Jon realized what he had said.  His stomach lurched queasily and he fought to keep his disquiet off his face.   

“It is a terrible trick, Your Grace, and we Northerners are not known for them.  Perhaps it is past time we show these Southrons that we can dance as well as they,” Meera Reed spoke, her voice was strong and determined.  She was both, Jon knew well.  She would have had to be to survive beyond the Wall for so long.  

“Then, we are agreed?”  A chorus of  _Ayes_  were his answer and Jon breathed out a relieved sigh.  “Then get to your beds, my lords, and rest.  We dance tomorrow,” he said, smiling at Meera.   

A laugh from one of their number broke the tension and they moved off slowly.  As they did, Ghost trotted past them, garnering some worrisome looks.  Jon knelt in the snow, and held out a hand to brush over the wolf’s ruff.  He buried his face in Ghost’s fur for a moment, feeling himself tremble as though every bone in his body wished to collapse.  

He’d been afraid, he realized.  Sweat dripped down his back and clung to his neck and inside his gloves he could tell his fingers were cramped and his palms were clammy.   _Don’t leave me again_ , Jon found himself thinking at the wolf.  After a minute or so, he pulled away and Ghost sat on his haunches.  Jon stood, Ghost’s glowing eyes, red as embers following him all the while.  

He turned to Sam and Davos, who’d waited for him.  Sam had his eyes held wide, and when Jon met his gaze, abruptly switched to looking at the ground.  Jon held back a sigh.  He glanced at Davos, and was surprised to see a smile on the man’s face.  

“You did quite well Jon.  Much better than I would have thought given this morning.  Did you swindle those Black Brothers of yours like this?” Davos asked.  

A moments thought had Jon realizing that he hadn’t tried to appeal to his brothers at the Wall, in at all the same manner.  Plain spoken orders and threats that reminded him of Theon at his most caustic had kept him afloat during his days as Lord Commander.  With Sansa at his side the months before he’d left for Dragonstone, there’d been no need for finesse of any sort.  Sansa had smoothed over any ruffled tempers that he caused by speaking too plain.   

Perhaps this is what she’d meant when she said she’d learned much from Cersei.  For it was sure and certain that tonight, in the godswood with all that the place implied, his bannermen had come around to his way of thinking better than they ever had before.  And had it not been the way at Dragonstone with Daenerys?  There too he’d learned to dole out his words carefully, as if each one were worth a gold dragon.  The result was that his family might survive the war.  

There was no arguing with the result.  He laid a hand on Ghost, steadying himself.  He tilted his head to peer up at the trees.  This late, even without the moon, it was still possible to make out the almost glowing chalk white branches of the heart tree.  He’d been truthful before it, as he been raised to be.  But the rest of the truth, Jon dared not contemplate.  He realized he hadn’t answered the question when Davos spoke his name, “Jon?”

“No.  I was cold as ice and heavy handed with it.  Rather like Stannis, to tell it true.”

Davos peered at him, the wrinkles in his brow deepening into troughs.  “Well, you’ve done better than I would have thought,” he replied.  “They may not like the Lannister woman, but they’ll like Daenerys Targaryen far less... although I would have hoped you would tell me about the extent of what you and your sister had planned before now.”

Davos stopped himself, looking uncomfortable.  Jon opened his mouth, but was not sure what he would have said.  It was true.  

“I am sorry,” Jon said, stepping closer to both of them.  “It was only that— well that I was conflicted about the whole idea.” 

“Your Grace!” one of the men at arms rushed up to them.  Jon whirled to face him.   The man stumbled to a halt.   

“What is it?”

“A rider from on the mountain clans has come begging for help.  They claim to have been attacked by the dead for the last three nights.”

“Where man?  Where have they camped?” Davos strode up to the messenger and gripped his shoulders.  

“North of Long Lake, milord,” the man at arms responded.   

“Seven save us,” came Sam’s voice.  He sounded faint and Jon turned with to place a hand on his arm.  “You’ve killed a White Walker once.  You can do it again as many times as you must.”

To the man at arms, Jon spoke firmly.  “We need an accounting of all folk who are still without the castle walls. Report to me once you have the information.  I’ll need you to send a runner to Maester Wolkan and Clovis to have them attend me in my solar.”

Jon waved the man off and paused a moment to fill his lungs.  The chill made him feel curiously alive.  “Come.  We’ll need to rouse Daenerys and her people and bring them to meet with the bannermen.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

The snow swirled madly, and the torches flickered anytime someone opened the hall doors. The chill wanted to set into his bones.  Tyrion set the fingers of one to massaging some warmth back into his legs.  He wondered how Daenerys had felt flying north to the Wall.  Had the dragon kept her warm or was she fire made flesh too, as the red priestesses believed of the dragons.  

Perhaps he would ask Jon Snow.  He ought to know by now as often as they were together.  Perhaps she would even give him the chance to ride a dragon.  That would be a sight.  Before too long Jon Snow probably would be atop dragon and then any chance the Seven Kingdoms had of resisting would be gone.  “Difficult to defeat.”

“I beg your pardon?” Varys replied.  

“Ah... I’ve begun speaking aloud to myself.  Never a good sign that,” Tyrion tried for a smile but Varys continued to look at him, silent and unsmiling.  The man was so lacking in cheer sometimes it was a miracle that Tyrion hadn’t been driven mad yet.  

“I was only thinking of our good King in the North and our Queen.  They are a pair aren’t they,” Tyrion said.  He felt quite sour about the whole affair, even though it was his own doing.  His and that red witch Melisandre.  

“Oh yes.  Quite the pair.  Dark and light.  One made of ice and the other of fire.  His battle tactics and her armies.  Her money and his land.  The gods must have had a hand in bringing them together.  How else could such perfection have been achieved,” Varys replied, voice lilting and sweet.   

Tyrion looked at him closely.  Even after all this time together it was occasionally difficult to tell when his friend was being facetious.  “You don’t believe in the gods,” he said after a moment.  

“Well that is true enough my lord.  But there are strange powers at work, I think we can both agree.”

“Yes.  I suppose so.”  They fell silent.  Supper was soon to be served and slowly others of the household were trickling in.  

After watching the folk around them for a time, Varys spoke up.  “Is it not a good thing that our Queen and the King in the North have formed a special liaison, as it were?” 

Tyrion looked sharply over at him.  “Of course.  If we survive this Night King, I can fully see the rest of Seven Kingdoms accepting Daenerys’ rule... Eventually.”

“Hmm, yes. Eventually.  We must do some work you and I to determine just how we might ensure that _eventually_  does become a _reality_ ,” Varys replied.  

“My friend, I do not believe there is any cause for concern.  So she is fierce toward her enemies.  She is supposed to be!  She will settle into ruling.  To hear Mormont speak, she did a passable job ruling Slavers Bay, even with only himself and Selmy to assist her,” Tyrion glanced over at Varys.  “And since we’ve sailed North, she has done remarkably well at controlling her impulses.”  

Varys shook his head minutely.  “I will not waste my breath on warning you.  But I will say this, our Queen is young yet.  With the same susceptibility as any youth may have.  But her companion is a level-headed sort.  You would do well to enlist his help.  It’s in his own best interest, regardless.”

“Ah yes. Jon Snow the Good.  Desperate to save his people.  What wouldn’t he do to ensure their survival?” He raised an eyebrow at Varys before applying himself to his meal.  

Mutton, again, and a mash of pease and carrots.  He did not much miss Essos, except when it was time to eat.  A sudden thought brightened his mood: it wasn’t just the North that was facing rationing.  Oh, the South was sure to be in dire straits soon enough.  Swallowing down mush was a trial that his sister would be sure to complain of to any who would listen.  Thinking about her sharp tongue brought a smile to his face.  

The doors opened at the bottom of the hall and Alys Karstark strode through, followed by her small shadow, Ned Umber.  Tyrion had heard all about the Karstark’s and the Umber’s fall from grace.  Here they were, despite it.  Jon the Good was looking more and more likely as a moniker.  

Tyrion forced another bite into his mouth and contemplated the room.   Other than the two young folk, it appeared as though none of the high lords were dining that evening.  Even Lady Hornwood, it seemed, would not be joining them for the meal.  

As he watched, the two children shoveled their meal into their mouths at speed and scurried away.  He tried not to stare at them and turned over the scene in his mind.  A hall at supper.  The lords of the castle and their bannermen missing from table.  

Tyrion checked surreptitiously again.  Davos Seaworth and the half-maester, whatever his name was, were missing too.  He finished his meal, taking his time and then pushed away his platter and took a long swallow of his wine.  

“I think I’ll take an after-supper nap,” he announced.  Varys looked at him, brow wrinkled.  “You would do well to take fewer naps.”  Tyrion cocked an eyebrow at him and grinned.  “Jealous?”  He choked back a laugh when Varys sighed and banged down his goblet.  “You know quite well what I think of such things—,” he began, exasperation clear in the lines of his face.  

Tyrion waved a hand and slid from his seat.  “A jest, I swear it.  But I will see you later, no doubt of that.”  Tyrion ambled away then, garnering little attention, and once he was through the doors sped his steps until he was outside Sansa’s chambers.  The guards there greeted him stiffly, but Sansa had drilled them well in the courtesies. 

“Is your mistress within?” Tyrion asked.  

“She is milord.  If you are wanting her, you must wait til tomorrow.  The king says she’s not to be awakened for nothin.” The guards shuffled together, as though he was about to ram his way through.  He contemplated them before turning away.  Sansa was abed, but perhaps the younger sister was about— the little monster as Cersei had called her once.  

Tyrion wandered the halls of the family quarters. Dreary and undistinguishable, getting lost was always a near thing in the corridors of this wing.  Outside Arya’s chambers stood another guard, this time a much less polite one given that he was standing the wrong way and gesticulating like a loon at the girl’s door.  Tyrion gave the young man a wide berth, glad at least that the trek had answered the question.  He could hear the girl’s voice raised as it was, from the other side of the hall from her door.  

Two Starks in their chambers, but Jon Snow was nowhere to be seen, nor the little brother, Bran.  Tyrion began to feel quite ridiculous.  He was no master of espionage as Varys was.  It was entirely likely that Jon Snow and the rest of his bannermen were abed.  The sun set early these days.  Most of them spent their entire day out of doors, in the frigid damp.  It was logical for them to forgo a long dinner in favor of more rest.  

Logic was for maesters.  This was a matter of strategy.  If the Seven Kingdoms were to be wrested from Cersei, then it only followed that as much intelligence as possible must be collected.  Tracking down Jon Snow and his bannermen might matter to his cause.  The cause that he was still not sure if the bastard truly shared.  

He considered a moment. Supper was full over by now.  Daenerys would be expecting him for their evening conference soon.  He pointed himself in the direction of the solar Jon had taken for his councils.  The chill of the corridor had sunk into his bones it seemed, in the stretch of time that he’d stilled to think.  He rather wished that the King was in his solar, snug before the fire with an ale.  He creakily started up the steps and stopped before the door.  

Only one knock was needed to have the door pulled open.  It was the onion knight, frowning down at him. Or perhaps that was just how the man’s face looked, Tyrion still was not quite sure.  

“Ser Davos, is Jon Snow about?” 

“He is.  Come in, come in,” Ser Davos replied.  He stepped aside to let Tyrion through and pushed the door shut behind him.  “Jon, the very man we needed to speak to.”

Tyrion approached the table Jon was poring over.  At Davos’ words, he raised his eyes.  The long Stark face was guarded as usual.  But there was something about his eyes that gave Tyrion pause. “Are you well?” 

“Oh aye.  Well enough my lord,” Jon stepped back from the table and came around it with a slip of parchment between his fingers.  Tyrion took it and read it through it twice.  “You don’t mind if I sit.  You don’t.  Good,” Tyrion walked to the chair nearest the fire and then stood there, feeling quite frozen.  

“Can this be trusted?” Tyrion asked, turning back to Jon. 

“It is my own summary, straight from their rider.  It matches what the other clans have told us.  While... We are coming to the point where the Wall will soon be quite lost to us.  And the numbers of the dead are growing.”

Jon stepped closer and pushed him into a chair and took the other one.  “Is it so shocking?  That the grumpkins and the snarks were real after all?   I thought you were a man of adventure.”  Tyrion laughed at that, though it hurt his throat.  “The adventure palled once I realized that the grumpkins and the snarks wanted to kill me.  I quite like being alive.”

“So do I.  I want to go on being alive.  For that I need your help,” Tyrion watched Jon heave a short breath, “for that I need your help with Daenerys.”

The fear faded a bit then.  White walkers could be dealt with tomorrow.  “The same kind of help you needed onboard your ship? The same kind of help you’ve needed since then?” Tyrion asked, still feeling ill but having an excuse to be caustic helped to exorcise it. 

“I’ve given her what she wanted.  It happened to be what I wanted too, but now I want to be sure in case I do not come back that she knows I loved her.  That it wasn’t just a dalliance.”

Tyrion watched him for a moment.  The boy looked away. Embarrassed perhaps.  Northmen were not to talk of things like love.  He tilted his head, wondering still.  

“I saw you, you know.  That first night aboard.  I saw your face.  You looked like a man who’d lost a bet.  You must forgive me if I wonder just how much affection there truly is on your part.  My Queen is besotted obviously.”  Tyrion watched Jon closely, “but with you it is difficult to tell.”

He waited.  The boy would pick up the thread or he wouldn’t and that would give him his answer.  

“You wish for a demonstration,” Jon replied.  “Sailing for Eastwatch to bring back a white walker was not enough?” His lip curled slightly.  “Or perhaps when I avowed to your sister that I had declared myself and the North for Daenerys, I hesitated like a maid?” 

“These things are not proof of your devotion to her cause, as heroic as they may be.  I have seen no sign that you intend to truly become her servant.  I see a proud man, though a good one, who is trading on his looks and his skill in the bedchamber to win a woman’s heart.”  Just as Shae had done.  He pushed that thought away.  

“My lord, I said to you once that you do not know me but that you knew I was no liar, nor crazed.  You will have seen by now that I am no coward either.  The games you and the Spider and your sister all love to play are not my games.  I want to marry Daenerys.  And I will.  I have told my bannermen such only this evening.”

The boy pushed himself straight in his chair, pride in every line of his body.  It had been a misstep to imply that the king was nothing more than a whore plying his trade.  Whether the bit about telling his retainers about his intention to marry was true would bear itself out in time.  

“We’ll not belabor the point.  As I have said, I am her hand not her head.  Daenerys will make her decision, and I am sure it will be the right one for the realm.  But I do not intend to help you Jon Snow.  Not in this.  If you wish for her hand, you’ll have to take it on bended knee, as I told you to do before.”

Jon stood by degrees, and strode over to his relief map.  “A change of subject then.  With this new information and no further word from the Free Folk at the Wall, I propose that we continue with our plan to have the formal meeting between my bannermen and Daenerys tomorrow.  Agreed?”

“Agreed.  What will you do about this party stranded at Long Lake?  Will you send a force to them?”  

“There is no question of sending one tonight.  They’d be dead to a man and only add to the numbers we must fight.  No, there is some trick here.  Just as there was at Eastwatch.  I’ll not be drawn out frenzied and uncoordinated.  They survived for three days, which means they may be able to hold out a few more,” Jon glanced at him, “but the composition of the force must be excellent riders.”

Tyrion glanced over at Ser Davos, but the greybeard met his gaze and kept his silence.  “My friend you’ve given me nothing but you’re expecting much.  How is this a fair exchange?” Jon tapped the fingers of one hand on the map, drawing Tyrion’s attention.  

“I am giving her the North.  And all I expect in return is that she upholds her oaths as a true queen would and defend the realm.  That the defense of the realm means using her own armies and resources makes no matter.”  He tapped his fingers on the map once more, and raised an eyebrow. It was a fair point; Tyrion could concede that much.  “A guarantee would ease matters; wouldn’t you agree?” As Jon made to reply, Tyrion raised a hand to forestall him.  “Say nothing of marriage please.  I _saw_  your face.  You may like her, but I am not convinced that you mean it when you say you’ll marry her.  No.”  

Tyrion took thought.  It would not do to push Snow past his breaking point.  The Northern lords would rebel rather than kneel, that much was still true.  There would be something else that Jon could give.  The fire flickered and jumped in the corner of his vision.  The brightness of it reminded him of Sansa.  She was a woman grown now, not a child.  Perhaps she would see now that he was not such a terrible choice.  There was a chance, remote, but still there, that she would be glad to be his wife now.

They could retire from court, where all her first hurts had happened and travel the Seven Kingdoms.  They could stay at the Rock, travel to Oldtown, see the Stormlands.  Anything she wanted, he could give her.  If she wanted a child, he could give her one.  He chanced a look at her brother and reconsidered.  

To marry Sansa again was a fool’s dream.  His lord father had not bred a fool.  A killer, but not a fool.  Daenerys was his life work now.  Though the thoughts of Sansa reminded him of her mother.  And of the Riverlands, free of Lannister control but not yet declared for the North.  With any luck, Jon Snow could see to that. 

“Here is our bargain: you will bring the Riverlands into the fold.  I’m sure Edmure is quite enjoying not being under my sister’s thumb.  Write to him.  Send him Sansa or Arya as an envoy.  Make him see that Daenerys is the best hope for the realm.  A good faith effort on your part will mean that I will do my best to convince Daenerys to set the Dothraki as our vanguard.” 

Tyrion pushed himself from his chair and extended his hand.  He was gratified that Snow took it, considering that he’d looked as close to angry as he ever got just a few moments before.  

“Good.  Then I will see your lot in the morning.” He nodded to Seaworth and made his way toward the door.  

“Another piece of news before you go,” Ser Davos spoke up as he pushed at the handle.  Tyrion stilled his hand and looked back.  “Your brother has been put on a ship destined for Kings Landing.  You’ll not know this, but it was Jon here that convinced Queen Daenerys to give your brother his chance.  I dare not guess what she would have done if Jon had not put his neck out to save him.  Perhaps you’ll weigh that in your scales before you give him any more lectures about his intentions.”

Jon was giving the knight a strangled sort of look.  Tyrion saw himself out, not knowing what to say.  It _had_ been a surprise that she had let Jaime go so blithely.  He’d put it up at first to having gotten what she wanted out of him.  At second blush, the thought did not align with her tendencies.  Daenerys would have killed him or imprisoned him, not sent him away.  

Uncomfortably, he recalled telling Varys that Daenerys had been doing better at controlling herself.  Self-control was something every good ruler needed.  When they lacked it, the people were gifted with another Aerys or a Joffrey.  Or a Cersei, gods forbid.  The self-control, then, was not hers but Jon Snow’s.  

Tyrion sighed.  Ahead of him were Daenerys’ chambers.  The guards this evening were two Unsullied.  No doubt the Dothraki were huddled near some fire, warding off the chill.  They pushed open the door for him as he approached.  

Within, Daenerys’ rooms were a furnace.  Around the fireplace, Mormont, Greyworm, Varys, and Missandei stood.  The queen had seated herself nearest the blaze, looking resplendent and comfortable in one of her shimmering black silks. Her beauty was astonishing.  It was no wonder that Jon Snow had no trouble giving her what she wanted.  Any man would fall before her.  As well she knew.  

“You’re quite late, aren’t you,” Daenerys queried.  Tyrion ambled over to her side table and took up two goblets.  He gestured at her with them and when she nodded laid them down and reached for the decanter of wine.  He took a swig of his, feeling nauseous once more.  

“I have some news, and I find myself quite conflicted Your Grace,” he began slowly.  

“Start with the least depressing,” Daenerys replied, looking away and sighing.  

“Jon Snow has told his Northmen that he intends to ask for your hand in marriage,” he looked into her face, for something that would indicate what he feared was only in his mind.  He was disappointed.  

She glanced back at him then and took a small sip, likely thinking to hide her growing smile.  “Well, that’s certainly not depressing.  What else?”

“Jon Snow’s mountain clans have sent him a rider begging for help.  There’s a caravan trapped north of Long Lake.  It is within several days ride of here.  He believes the dead are gradually ranging themselves across the whole of the North, from the east to the west.”

“And the Free Folk? The Night’s Watch?” Mormont asked.  “They are lost to us unless they trekked over what remained of the Wall to the Shadow Tower,” Tyrion replied.  

“Does Jon Snow fight?  We Unsullied are ready,” Grey Worm asked.  Tyrion thought again about Jon’s request for excellent riders.  The Unsullied were foot soldiers.  They were also disciplined soldiers.  The Dothraki were not.

Tyrion nodded at him and looked to Daenerys again.  “I do not know his full plans, but I know he will bring them to you for your approval and input,” he paused, “he seems quite the general.

Daenerys replied,  “My dragons should be here within a day.  Not more than two.  I can go as well.  There would be no chance then of losing those people to the Night King.”

“My queen,” Mormont began to say, the look on his face suddenly worried. 

“Your Grace, a man like Jon Snow would never allow his wife ride into danger like that.  Not unless there was no other choice,” Tyrion said, before Mormont could go on.  

“Well I am not his wife.  I am his queen,” she looked into her goblet for a moment.  “Though I am not opposed necessarily to being both.”

“Then tomorrow, before he can ask you to be his wife, perhaps you ought to ask him to be your consort.  That would change the expectations,” Tyrion hefted the cup to his lips and downed another swallow.  

“He would be your equal not your lord,” Tyrion finished.  His stomach twisted.  It could not be blamed on the wine, which was superb.  It was an excellent match.  Daenerys would have her husband to guide her when she wished to go to excess.  It would be him she turned to when she wanted to rage or cry or jest.  If Jaime were to survive this war, it would be her husband’s words that would save him, again.  

“I, too, have news, Your Grace.  It gladdens me to say that my little birds have heard whispers from the east.  An army come to support you will be arriving at Dragonstone.  At the head of it is your dear friend, Daario Naharis,” Varys bowed a little, eyes sharp on Daenerys’ face.  The queen was lost; it was obvious.  And Tyrion felt his stomach roiling again.  Missandei spoke into the silence, her voice uncharacteristically strident.  

“The Second Sons have come of their own volition to our queen’s aid?  This is unlikely.  They are sellswords.  We have nothing to sell,” she looked to her mistress, brow wrinkled in consternation.  Tyrion curled his hand tight around the goblet.  

“Daario thinks to be a husband to a queen.  The people of Meereen chose their leader, so he took his army and left.  He’s coming to my aid, and he means for me to pay with my hand,” Daenerys stood, mouth drawing down into a harsh line.  “Let him come to my aid.  If he thinks to threaten me or coerce me, I will teach him a sharp lesson.”  She drank off her wine in one jerky upraised motion of her arm and placed the goblet back on its table.  

“Any further reports?”

Tyrion watched the others and as they were silent, spoke up again. “Varys’ report is, of course, somewhat disturbing.  But what is more pressing is tomorrow.  Jon Snow intends for you to be introduced to the lords of the North and the Vale tomorrow.  If you accept his offer before them, they will see you as his wife.  You will have a place, a valued one, at his councils.  You will have a voice, a prominent one, in all decisions.  But the kingdoms will be his.  Not yours.  Not in their eyes.  Do not let this happen.  Use your love to convince them, but remain ascendant by claiming him first.”

“How will asking him to marry me give me the upper hand?  Will I take a husband from all the Seven Kingdoms then?” Daenerys asked, all dry sarcasm.  

“Your grace, when Jon Snow gives you his hand, you will not need to.  They will see that you have won the key to the North and the Vale and the Riverlands.  They will see that you have taken the Reach and will soon take the Stormlands and the crownlands.  They will see that it was you who saved them from certain death and from Cersei and give you their allegiance—”

“I disagree.  You need not take the first man that appeals to you.  You are the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.  Let them vie for you.  Make them have tourneys, write songs.  Make them ride a dragon,” Mormont interjected.  

“You do not approve?” 

Mormont paused before answering that question, Tyrion was glad to see.  His fixation upon the queen was nigh upon suicidal at times.  

“I like Jon.  He’s a decent man.  He’s fair to his people.  He’s good to his womenfolk.  You’d likely have a happy marriage.  But you did not come here to marry.  You came to rule these kingdoms as they ought to be ruled.  To give the common people lives worth living.  To make men remember that honor and glory are not just words,” he looked at her imploringly.  “I know you do not need my approval.  But I am your man, and I will be to my dying breath.  I must give you my council.”

Daenerys gazed at him, softer now.  “It will not diminish my rule to take a husband.  It would give me comfort to have him by my side.  I know that you want that for me.  That you’ve always wanted me to be happy.  Jon makes me happy, Jorah.  Just as Grey Worm and Missandei make each other happy.”

Mormont sighed at that and bowed his head.  “Then we are agreed?” Daenerys said, her voice coming rushed and high pitched.   She looked around at them all and when no one spoke dismissed them.  “Until the morning. We shall go down to the hall together.”  

Tyrion waited for and caught Varys’ eye.  The lying trickster had sat on that news for who knows how long.  To have let loose it now, when they were too far north to control the outcome was surely a ploy.  They walked out together and Tyrion followed Varys to his chamber.  

It was a cozy nook on the outer wall, with rivulets of water coursing through the stone.  That was handy for a spy, no doubt.   Sound traveled so well over water after all.  When the door was closed behind them, Tyrion opened his mouth intending to go on a tear.  

“I assume you went in search of answers my lord,” Varys settled into a chair, hands free of their sleeves for once.  Tyrion strode around the little room, wanting to explode.  “Answers to what?”

“The reason for the Northern lords quite obvious absence from supper.  There are at least a handful every evening.  Tonight there were two.  For a span of five minutes.  My birds had heard no whispers.  And still I do not know what the facts of the matter were.  Do you?”

“If I tell you what I found, will you tell me about the Second Sons?”  

“Quite.  Do go on,” Varys waved an airy hand at him and pulled a handful of nuts from a sleeve to nibble at. 

Tyrion forced himself to stillness.  “Jon Snow told his bannermen that he intends to wed Daenerys.  I assume convincing them took some time, but they came around.  He received word of the party at Long Lake and developed a plan to rescue them using the Dothraki.”

“Curious.  First-hand accounts are always much more nuanced but I can make do with this for now.  I thank you,” he took another small bite, chewed and swallowed.  “The sellswords true intentions are quite unknown.  Incidentally, Euron Greyjoy has not been seen for some time, nor his Iron Fleet.”

“Their intentions are unknown.  You know most everything,” Tyrion replied, calmly.  He was proud that he’d managed it.  “Greyjoy and the Second Sons may be coming to Westeros together to destroy Cersei.   Destroy Daenerys.  Or destroy both of them.  How can you not know?”

“We are far from Essos, my lord.  I am a man like you, and I have things even I cannot do.  If word has reached my little birds in the south, they have not sent their messages north to me yet.  I must wait in this terrible place,” he sighed, sounding discontent and Tyrion wanted to shake him.  

“Our queen may be in danger and—,” 

“Oh come now!  You have been disenchanted with _our queen_  since she took Jon Snow to her bed instead of you.  Well that’s not quite right.  You didn’t truly want to lie with her.  You just wanted her to love you most of all.  And now that she loves Jon Snow more, now that she listens to his voice, now that she has less use for you, a Lannister, you flounder like a fish out of water,” disappointment and disdain were in every word.  

“Tell me truly, are you concerned more about the Targaryen girl, your sister and that ill-begotten child she’s bearing, or the people you’ve sworn to stand by?”

Tyrion grimaced, ill at ease.  The words rang true.  “I am not a turncloak, though I am undoubtedly other unsavory things.  I have sworn myself to Daenerys and I will keep that oath.  You cannot blame me if I love my family even as I want them defeated.  I want them dead sometimes, yes.  Often enough that I am here with a woman intent on conquering and killing all who oppose her.”

Varys took a moment before replying, his eyes steady on Tyrion’s own.  “It was, of course, no accident that I chose to reveal this today.  I warned her when she took me into her service that I would serve her as long as she serves the realm.  I no longer believe that she serves the realm.  She is a victim of the strange powers that gave her ancestors the ability to ride dragons.  It drove them mad, I believe.  As it has driven her away from all her early promise.”

“I warn you now and beg of you.  Reconsider this oath.  Serve the _realm_ , not this would-be queen.  Let your sister and Daenerys destroy each other and when they have gone, help me reshape this country.  There are the seeds of a new era taking root.  Jon Snow is one of those seeds.  His blacksmith, Gendry Baratheon is another.  Both level headed, men of the people.  Seaworth will do.  The half trained Maester from Horn Hill.  Missandei of Naath if she will open her eyes.  Sansa Stark if she is what I think she is.  And you, my lord.”

Tyrion turned away from the blaze of honesty.  He’d hardly heard Varys speak a word in such a tone before.  There was no trace of the sycophant or the spymaster.  He shivered.  It didn’t need consideration no matter how earnest his friend was.  

“I cannot... I will not hurt her,” Tyrion said, finally.  He looked at Varys, hoping to be understood.  

“Think hard on my words before you come to your decision,” Varys sighed, “No matter how we try, we always hurt someone, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading my fic! You've all been amazing to a first-time writer like me, and I truly appreciate it. The next set of chapters are all in various stages of written, but I've got to put my nose to the grindstone of RL for a while. I'll be back at it soon.


	17. Chapter 17

“Wights must be the happiest creatures in all the world.  My dead mother, Seven save her, I can just see her now, wielding her switch at the Night King’s order.  Coming to whip my arse for something or another, and cackling about it as she used to do.  All they do all day is hit people and scream at them.  Who wouldn’t want to do that?”

The crow was panting with effort like all of them were.  It was no walk for old folks or cowards.  And from what he’d seen of the crow, the man was no coward.  But he could talk for days.  He was worse than that fucker the Lord o’Bones.  And that stupid, bone-covered shithead had been more than able to carry on a conversation with even the dumbest of Mance’s army.  

But he was dead, as they were going to be if they couldn’t go any faster.   He growled at the crows lagging behind him.  

“D’you want to talk and die?  Or shut up and run?  Those are the choices, and I’ve made mine.”  With that, Tormund picked up his feet and tucked his head down.  The crows behind him, and especially that noisy one Edd, all stopped their grumbling and ran faster.  

There was no sure way to tell that they’d be able to outrun the few grunting bags of bones that hunted them, but death was certain if they stopped.  And if they made it to the Shadow Tower, which was sure to be close by now, they’d have a better chance of staying alive and making it south.  

South was where the woman was.  And Jon Snow.  And his kissed by fire sister.  The one the stupid bastard was trying so hard not to touch.  The Jon Snow who’d been killed hadn’t had much of that honor the Southrons were always singing about, but he hadn’t been someone who kissed his kin.  Whatever the Red Witch had done to bring him back had changed the boy somehow.  

The Mance had had his faults too.  Pride was one of them.  At least Jon Snow wasn’t too full of that.  He’d been a good king of the crows and of the Free Folk so far, even if he did want to fuck his sister.

“Oi Tormund!” the narrow faced crow, Edd, called out to him.  Tormund chanced a look behind them, fear tightening all his muscles.  The wights still chased them, but hadn’t gotten closer.  

“What is it?” he called back.  

“We’re still far from the Shadow Tower.  Too far.  We need to stop and face them.”  Edd was gasping for air between the words, but Tormund remembered the look on his face from when he’d come to them to avenge Jon Snow.  He’d decided to fight.  Tormund nodded and slowed.  

To either side of him, the Wall dropped away.  A sheer sheet of ice on either side.  No holds.  No room for error.  No way to light a fire for him if he fell.  He shook away the fear and drew the short blade he’d stolen off some poor sap.  It’d saved his life too many times to count.  A good trade considering the scar he’d gotten stealing it.  

He chuckled to himself and crouched, waiting for the crows to reach him.  The other undead one, Beric stopped in front of him first.  He’d been the one to save them both when that dragon had melted the Wall.  Hand over hand, he’d pulled Tormund up onto the outcropping of ice that'd somehow not fallen free.  

The two of them had shimmied up and along the outcropping for hours.  Hundreds of feet below, the dead had shuffled by.  It had been a boiling sea of bodies, all silent but for the whistle of the wind.  It was worse than nearly being dragged under the water.  It was worse than when that Southron fucker had damn near bashed his head in.    

It was exactly what Mance had wanted to do, if he’d ever been able to find that horn.   Tormund wondered if they’d been able to find it, would the dead have followed them through?  Thinking about it hurt something in his chest.  Would that all those unlucky soldiers in Mance’s army were here now though, instead of smashed under Stannis’ boot.  The ragged crows around him were nothing compared to them.  But they had spirit, even if they were shit at fighting.  

One of them, a greybeard already, rose up screaming from his haunches and ran, howling at the wights til he was close enough to launch himself into the first wight that close enough.  It and he fell off the edge.  A stupid death, but it was one less to worry about.  If he was lucky, the fall would break him into too many pieces for him to be brought back.  

The next two crows were smart.  The wights swirling up to them were snarling as much as bones held together by magic and gristle could, but they waited out the rush side by side and then swiveled until their backs were to the edge of the Wall.  The wights turned at them and would’ve fallen upon them were it not for the other crows pummeling them with fists and knives.  

“Fall back!  Don’t just stand there.  Group up!” Tormund howled at them when they’d beaten the two wights off the edge.  The next few wights were close now.  If they kept their heads they’d survive the rush and be on their way.  Though it was a question of if there was anything to be on their way to.  But that was a man’s lot in life.  If he died, well at least he'd lived first.  There’d been a good fights, good children, and good women-- even if the tall woman had escaped him so far.  He’d gone South beyond the Wall and settled the Free Folk to live under a king worth the name.  If they survived, he’d be remembered.  

They were closer now.   It was almost as bad as that godsforsaken trip to catch a wight that the dragon queen had sent Jon Snow on.  Waiting for them, knowing there wasn’t any chance of escape.   He wrapped his hand tighter around the hilt.  “In close.  We’ll throw them off when they rush.”  

The crows and Dondarrion pressed close, the heat of them almost as good as the goatsmilk after a battle.  Listening to the sharp whistle of the wind, he could just barely hear the din of bones clattering together in the distance.  It grew louder, and colder.  “Wait you fuckers!  Don’t move until they’re on us.”

When he could see their rotted faces and feel the trembling of the men around them then he bawled at them, “Together now.  Push them off the edge!”  They advanced just as the screaming lot of dead men were about to collide with them.  One of the crows, punchier than the rest, bulled his way through the middle of the onslaught.  Caught there, like a rat in a trap, the ugly undead things turned on him.  Tormund swallowed down bile, hearing the man’s screams rise in pitch.  He urged them forward again, knowing that the idiot had given them an opportunity.  Wedging themselves close to the wall, they hacked and sawed at the bone bags, keeping tight together.  

His sword arm was aching, and the fear twisting in his guts made him want to rush out of the group and charge at them screaming.  But patience was smarter.  Patience would see them through.  “Push!  Don’t let up!  Make them give ground!” He screamed it, voice hoarse with effort.   What felt like an eternity passed before the first wight fell from the edge of the Wall.  Then the next fell, and the next.  Soon it was nothing but him, Beric and the crows left wheezing and panting atop the Wall.  

He began to laugh, once he found his wind.  Edd looked at him wildly, before turning away shaking his head.  “Har!  Come along crows.  The end of the world is here and we’ve got more running to do.”  He sheathed his blade again, still chuckling. The end of the world was terrible similar to the old.   

* * *

 

“Never thought I’d see this with mine own eyes.”

Tormund gave a grunt in response.  He was tired down to his bones.  Dondarrion had it right though.  The great, dark tinted stones of the Shadow Tower loomed above them, regular and as unbroken as the Wall had ever been.  He twitched, remembering the Wall crumbling beneath his feet, rumbling like some demon within was awake and coming to eat them all.  He shook himself.  Children’s tales.  Walls didn’t have demons in them.  

He turned his head and saw the dour bundle of furs that was Edd trundling toward him.  Tormund pulled himself up straight.  Jon hadn’t needed many of the Free Folk here, which was a pity.  If they’d been at the Shadow Tower and not Eastwatch, there’d be more of them yet.   If they’d listened when Jon had come to Hardhome, there’d be more of them still.   

“Ser Malliser won’t budge his arse from the Shadow Tower even if the castle is falling down around him.  He says if he sees any of your folk he’ll let them in and stay if they wish, but he won’t commit any men of the Nights Watch to riding South to Winterfell.  No matter than I’m Lord Commander now,” he finished on a discontent grumble.

Tormund gazed at him for a breath, brows lowered.  “You’re the king of these crows.  If you want them to ride South, tell them to ride South.  Isn’t that how you Southrons do things?”

The crow met his eyes straight on for a moment, brows lowered, and mouth tight.  He turned away before replying, “Jon left things a mess.  The Nights Watch takes no part, but he was killed and brought back.  Who was going to stop a dead man from riding away South if he wished it?  Who was going to stop a dead man from saying he’s not Lord Commander anymore?  Not me.  He said I was Lord Commander, but that isn’t how the Watch does things,” he sighed.  “I knew that, but I didn’t even think on it.”

Tormund kept still.  It was no use saying anything.  The way of the Free Folk was best.  You chose the best among you to lead and then they chose the rest.  If Jon Snow chose Edd, then that was it.  

After a few moments, Dondarrion spoke.  “I’ll have a word with Ser Malliser, Lord Commander.  If he won’t come, then we must leave without him.  Perhaps some of the others will see the right of it and come away with us,” he raised a hand and placed it on the other man’s shoulders.  He pulled away and made for the doors.  Tormund watched him and when he was through, spoke.

“You’re comin?”

“South to Winterfell?  There’s not much choice is there?  Have to make sure Jon hasn’t turned dead again, and I’d like to keep on living myself.”  Tormund nodded, feeling as though a chill was spreading through him, from more than the light snow and piercing wind.  The way down the Wall was treacherous even so close to the Shadow Tower.  There might even be White Walkers in the water.  At Eastwatch, he’d seen that true enough.  But there wasn’t any help for it.  To stay at the Wall was death by the cold or the dead.  At least if they tried going South, there’d be a fight.

* * *

Tormund would’ve given his left hand for a man among them who’d been born and raised in the true North, but they had made it all the same.  All that was left was to get across the bridge that Mance had failed to take, into the Bay of Ice, and go as far South as South goes.  If there were no ships to be had, then they’d walk and hunt for as long as they must.  But if there was a ship to take them across the water…  Tormund tried not to think on it.  The chance of it was slim. 

This close to the bridge, the chill felt like a vise around his limbs, chaining him to the ground.  But they had the luck of the gods with them and the chill, damp wind that could kill a man was absent.  They could make it over the Gorge.  All it would take was a little luck.  Tormund peered upward, but the skies had been grey since the Wall fell.  Tormund crept back to the others, feeling as he did that there were eyes watching.  He shrugged the feeling aside, hoping as he did that it wasn’t a sign.  

Back at the copse of trees that they’d made their camp for the moment, he dropped to his haunches and took up a stick laying near.  “This is the way,” he said, breathing misting out in front of him.  “We go across, quiet-like, not wakening anything or anyone hereabouts.  Dondarrion, Edd you stay back and watch for anything coming for us.  We’ll all get across together,” Tormund said, mouth open to go on.  Edd spoke in a grumbling whisper that carried well enough, nonetheless. “Or we’ll all die together.  What fun.”

Ignoring that, Tormund stood and waited for the others to stand around him as well.  They were ready.  He led the way, storming back to the bridge, face feeling burned by the cold.  He tilted his head down against the sudden rising wind and took a step onto the bridge.  

It held.  

Tormund jerked his head at the others and saw them creep toward the bridge.  The wind seemed to beat and buffet them all— until they reached halfway across.  Then it dropped to a gentle breeze.  Tormund shivered despite himself and opened his mouth to chivvy the crows behind.  He shut his teeth with a click and shimmied his way to the back of the line the men had formed, two abreast.  He slammed them on the back as he went.  When finally, he was in the rear, he searched the wrapped faces looking for Edd and Dondarrion.  They were there— one sour, the other determined.  

“It’s off,” Tormund said, sloping an around both their shoulders.  “How do you mean?” came Edd’s reply.  The only sign of his ever present displeasure was the scrunch of his nose. 

“There should be dead men here.  Crows and Free Folk both.  And horses.  They aren’t here.”

“Well maybe the damnable wind blew them off the edge and into the Gorge, like it’s about to do to us.”  Tormund jogged the bony, pointed shoulder under his hand.  “Har.  That’s true enough.  It might’ve been the wind.  Or more like, they stood up and walked away South like I saw the rest of the dead do at Eastwatch.”  

“If the dead had risen again, the men Jon Snow placed at Westwatch would have seen such a thing and reported it to us.  They would’ve written to Castle Black and the Shadow Tower and Winterfell.  Lord Commander Tollet is correct, Tormund.  The wind took them into the Gorge.”  Dondarrion turned his head slightly when Tormund made no reply.

“You aren’t convinced.”

“No.”

* * *

It was beautiful on the other side of the Gorge.  The winds had died down to the occasional hair ruffling murmur.  The sun shone weakly, but still shone.  Once Tormund thought he saw a bird—a crow perhaps it was.  Then it was gone, as everything else this side of the Wall was gone.  

No birds, no game, no people.  Everything still and silent as the grave.  And all around, there was the ice.  It was that, more than anything else, that made Tormund wonder if this were to be his true end.  He remembered the way the wights had piled on him at Eastwatch, doing their damnedest to pull him beneath the frozen lake.  Now, ahead of them, glinting faintly with the sun, was the Bay of Ice.  Frozen through, as far as he could tell, and firm to the touch.  Firm enough to carry the weight of a man.  Firm enough to carry the wisp that was a wight.  A thousand times over.  

Strike out across the water or follow the shore as far south as their feet would make them.  Whichever way they chose, in one direction or another there would be wights lying in wait.  It was only a matter of time. 


	18. Chapter 18

The creaking noise came again. He exhaled, forcing it between his teeth, feeling the tightness of his jaw and wondering if the creaking was his teeth. He ran his tongue across them, a quick darting pass. The creaking noise came again, and Jon knew at least that he wasn’t clenching his teeth so hard that they were like to break. A gloved hand inserted itself across his vision.   
  
He followed it with his eyes until it came to rest on his own fists. Tightened over one another again. He looked over: it was Sansa this time, reminding him. She looked pale, but she’d done something different with her hair, and it fell in a fiery tail down her back. He loosened the death grip he’d had and folded his hand over hers and squeezed.  
  
She squeezed in return and withdrew her hand. Turning away from him she gestured to Arya and Bran. Arya laid her hands on the back of Bran’s chair and pushed steadily. Men at arms pushed open the doors to the great hall, and the noise which had been a muted roar, easily ignored, became a pulsing thing beating at his ears. They disappeared through the doors.   
  
“Shall we go through together?”  
  
Jon lifted his elbow until she wrapped her hands about his arm. Through the layers of cloth, he couldn’t feel the warmth of her hands, but he remembered it well enough. He wondered if being raised as he had been— a bastard— was what made him enjoy her closeness as much as he did. Since talking with Tyrion, he’d decided that he didn’t much care. He was everything that they said he was, as much as he’d rather not admit it to himself. If made him a bastard to want to protect his family and their people, he would do whatever it meant. He’d lie to the realm, for the third time.   
  
“Together,” he murmured to Sansa. Tossing a nod to the men-at-arms, they pushed open the doors once more and the roar rolled over him again.   
  
At the last great meeting, in this hall, he and Sansa had been the only ones at the head table, and it had been a stern affair with no pageantry. This time, Sansa had laid her hands to it and worked a magic on the hall and its inhabitants. As they drew close to the end of the first table, the raucous fervor began to die. The hush spread down the walkway, and Jon remembered the feast they’d held in King Robert’s honor. When Sansa had only had eyes for Joffrey, and Lady Catelyn had him sat at a table with the squires to watch from the side as the true family entered the hall. He shuttered that thought away before it could go to its logical conclusion. So mired in his thoughts, he realized with a start that they had come to the top of the hall. In silence, Sansa slipped her hand from his arm and wound her way around the table to her seat beside Arya and Bran. She gave him a small nod as she arranged herself. Jon stirred himself and turned to face the gathering. From the side, he could glimpse where Daenerys had placed herself and her party. Close to the top of the hall, but not so near that all eyes were drawn to them.   
  
“My lords, my ladies. You have heard the reports, and I have spoken with many of you about our plans to defend the North. But I have had news in the night carried here to Winterfell. There is a party of women, children, and men trapped north of Long Lake. They beg us for aid and to help them fight the White Walkers besieging them,” Jon began, pulling the parchment with his notes upon it, from within his glove.   
  
As he finished speaking, the silence was pierced by voices, all crying out. There was horror in the voices, fear too, of that Jon had no doubt. He went on, pitching his voice as he would in battle, to carry over the din. “Yet, we all know the lay of the land there. Now that the snows have come in earnest, it would be no easy trek from Winterfell to succor them. So I ask your suggestions, my lords. Do we send a party?”  
  
The din lessened and they began to huddle together and mutter amongst themselves. Glover stood.   
  
“Even if we send to them, it would take the better part of three days before any of our men could arrive. They would be dead. Or worse. And our men would be stranded. I say no.”  
  
The rest looked among themselves and slowly the murmur of voices began to have an undercurrent of agreement. It was as he’d thought, save for a few reluctant visages here and there amongst the crush of bodies at the tables. “It is true, that even as the crow flies, the journey would be long.”  
  
Bran’s voice carried through the hall. His expression remained remote as silence slowly reached its fingers to the far end of the hall, Bran took breath before speaking again. “Yet, when the people of the North call to each other for aid, should we not rise? At least that is what my father and brothers taught me.”  
  
“Aye! And when you were Lord of Winterfell in your father’s place, you sent the best of your guard hither and yon to protect us and we haven’t forgotten it,” Jon could not see to whom belonged the voice.   
  
“But this is a different time?” Bran replied, sounding young.   
  
“It is little lord. Now the winds have risen, we dare not leave the walls of Winterfell.” Jon watched quietly, but no other voices rose.   
  
“I, too, wondered through the night whether to ask this dangerous thing of you all. It strikes me as a foolhardy task. Considering the size of the force against us, there is no chance we could prevail. But there is another choice before us.”  
  
Jon moved and raised a hand toward Daenerys. She rose quickly, as though she had been waiting for him, and Jon wondered what exactly Tyrion had said to her. Standing as she was, even garbed in her bright white winter cloak, she was an unremarkable speck at the top of hall. No doubt she knew it, for in the next minute, she was striding to stand beside him. Jon fought to keep his unease from showing on his face.  
  
He flicked a glance to Sansa as he turned to make room for Daenerys at his side. She had her pleasant smile plastered in place, which was a surprise. Arya, too, looked unthreatening. Would that either of them were standing in his place. The thought was unworthy, and guilt rising up in him made him step forward, as though to shield them from the eyes watching around the hall.   
  
“We can ask Daenerys Targaryen for her help,” Jon raised his hand for quiet when it seemed that the pronouncement would set the whole hall abuzz. “You know her family name, but you do not know the woman, my lords. Hear her and judge for yourselves.” He gestured again to Daenerys and was pleased that she seemed enthused rather than reluctant.   
  
“As your King has said, you know my family name. But you do not know me. I am Daenerys, Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. I, like my forebears, brought together disparate peoples under one banner— the Dragon banner. All for one purpose: to serve the people.”  
  
“To serve yourself! As your forebears did,” Royce had stood to make it clear who had spoken. He did not need to turn round the room for approval; the others around the hall pounded the tables with their agreement.  
  
He went on, “The King in the North says you are another option, and perhaps you are, but at what cost? What will you demand of us, if we ask you to defend our lands with your armies and your beasts?”  
  
Jon watched Daenerys’ face. He recalled, suddenly, her return from battle outside King’s Landing. “Beasts they may be, but these beasts are the sigil of House Targaryen, as the direwolf is the sigil of the Stark’s. And just as Grey Wind fought at my brother Robb’s side, so too have the dragons protected Daenerys. They have saved my own life, even.”  
  
Daenerys turned her face up to him, for the briefest instant, but it was enough for Jon to see that she had relaxed again. He would have to be on guard throughout it would seem. Even if things fell out as he hoped.   
  
It was only that morning that Tyrion had come to him once more in his solar. He’d situated himself carefully in front of the fire, and gazed at him sternly before speaking. “Your Ser Davos reminded me of my ill-manners last night. It isn’t often that I bring myself to apologize Jon Snow. But he was right, and I am sorry for maligning your name. I should like to make things well between us again. Tell me how I may serve you,” he’d finished, and Jon had looked at him closely. It wasn’t an apology he deserved, considering. Yet, the look of the other man before him had forestalled any idea he’d had of demurring. It wasn’t a look of a man who’d bitten into something sour. Dread tightened a man’s shoulders and eyes. Dread and reluctance.   
  
He’d responded mildly, “You can walk with me to take the air with my brother Bran.” Laying hands on his cloak, he’d swung it about his shoulders, edged around Tyrion to bank the fire and shouldered open the door. By the time he was half out the door and into the hallway, Tyrion had roused himself and followed. The walk, short though it was, reminded him of the other walk they had taken together. Then, the talk had been marred by the deliberate scare by the dragons and the jest over Sansa. The same taut wariness underlay their words.   
  
For himself, that walk had been a struggle in keeping his mind in the present. To banish from his mind’s eye, the image of Sansa’s frightened face as she sought to keep him from deliberately walking into danger.   
  
Yet as he strode down the hallways and out to the yard, and wound his way to the godswood, Jon had considered that perhaps it had not all been for naught.   
  
“Your brother has been ill, has he not? He must be quite devout to be willing for brave the cold for prayer.”  
  
“Aye, he prays, my lord. As I do, and my sisters, for a quick war with the Night King,” as he said the words, they had come near enough for Bran to hear him. He took up the thread. “And for the Lannisters to fall, and peace to come over the realm once more.”  
  
There was the sort of pause that usually came after Bran said something these days. Pregnant with uncertainty. “Even you, young man, wish to see my family wiped away? I thought you and I were friends,” he swung his gaze to Jon before meeting Bran’s eyes again, “We three, in fact.”  
  
“Cripples, bastards, and broken things-- I remember. You were kind, and kept your pity to yourself, which is more than most think to do. But, you have a soft spot for more than our kind, do you not Lord Tyrion?”  
  
Jon watched Tyrion’s face carefully. “I cannot guess what you mean.” His breath had caught on the words.   
  
“Your sister. Your brother. Their child. You remember, don’t you, the promise you made Cersei about the child?” Bran’s voice, low and unhurried though it was, was implacable. “I can understand the impulse, my lord, but do you truly think that at the last, with all the Seven Kingdoms under her control, Daenerys would let such a threat to her kingdom go free?”  
  
Tyrion settled his arms behind his back and paced for long moments. He addressed them carefully, “I do not know how you know of this conversation, but surely you must realize that I would have said anything to coerce Cersei into agreeing to cease hostilities. My intent was to serve my queen, and she has always given me latitude to serve her in whatever way I deem best.”   
  
Jon replied, watching Tyrion’s face all the while, “You serve loyally, of that I have no doubt, my lord. But my brother questions you, in this manner, just as you did me— for the sake of our alliance. We must all be sure of where we stand.”  
  
“Sit down,” Tyrion replied, abruptly. Jon tilted a look at him, curious, but sat near Bran. “You ought to know my history with my family Jon Snow,” Tyrion began.   
  
“Your history with your father is ended. And you cannot be unaware that your sister is the only one of you who can further your line.”  
  
“My history with my family,” Tyrion went on as though Jon had not spoken, “means that I have had quite enough of saving them and protecting them. I am Daenerys’ man now—her family.”  
  
Jon caught the edge of a glance from Bran and drew breath for replying. He exhaled with force. “You are her man. And this is no doubt why you refuse to support my desire to ask for her hand. In which case, why do you not marry her my lord? Join Targaryen to Lannister and defeat your sister in the South. Leave us your men and one of your dragons. Leave the North to defend itself and when we have done so, we shall meet and decide what to do for the realm.”  
  
Tyrion had stood as though axed on the head. Jon rose and placed his hand on Bran’s shoulder. “I would wish to be Daenerys’ family too, but I have an army to defeat. And there is no guarantee that I shall live to return. It would be beyond cruel to marry her and leave her. This is how you can make reparations for your slight. Consider Daenerys’ heart and her goals and make them happen.”  
  
He had stepped back to push Bran’s chair away then. When they were near to the First Keep, Bran spoke, “Was it cruel to plant this seed?”  
  
Jon could not bring himself to reply, but laid a hand on Bran’s hair for a moment before withdrawing it.   
  
In the morass of his thoughts, Jon had lost the thread of the confrontation growing before him. He caught the last part of Lyanna Mormont’s words, “... the North is free, my lady, and we do not bow to any foreigner.” Jon drew in a sharp breath.   
  
“The honor of the North is known to the entire realm, Lady Mormont, and Her Grace would not dream of crushing the spirit of your people. She invites you to see that unity benefits us all. Your ability to sustain yourselves in the long winter ahead of us may depend on the number and type of friends you have in the South. And in the South, the ability to survive the cold depends on the expertise and hardihood of the friends they have in the North.” Tyrion paused.   
  
“Your own King has said as much, many a time. Together, we win.” The echoes of Tyrion’s voice brought a hush of the hall and curious expression of pride to Daenerys’ face. Jon marked it.   
  
“It is true,” Jon said into the silence, “that I have been campaigning for our alliance to become a thing of more than smoke. Yet I know that Her Grace is concerned over the entirety of the kingdoms and not simply one corner of it. And it is that which I hope we can address.”  
  
Daenerys laid a gloved hand on his arm and Jon heard the murmurs begin. The air in the room became anticipatory.   
  
“I must forestall you, my lord,” she said and smiled up at him wanly. “My advisors have reminded me that to bring together the realm in the quickest time and with the least loss of life due to the cold of Winter, we must battle on two fronts. In the North, we must defeat the Night King and his army. And to the South, a lesser threat, is Cersei Lannister and her mercenaries. In front of these witnesses then, I propose that we ratify our alliance. I shall give you the command of my Unsullied and leave you Rhaegal to guard against the cold.”  
  
She glanced behind to Tyrion, still with her palm warm against his arm. “And I will go South to defeat our other enemy with all speed.” Jon watched her face, and fought to keep his hands still. He weighed Bran’s haunted eyes, Arya’s worried lip against his aunt’s bright, consuming fire. Sam’s quicksilver excitement and Ser Davos’ low voice making an obscene sailor’s joke. Sansa’s sweet smile as she slid into sleep. Her hand in his, and her voice exhorting him to be smarter than Father.   
  
“The North thanks you for your generosity, Your Grace. We will not forget this service you have done us. Win your battles and take your seat, and we shall speak again of uniting the realm when you, and we, have triumphed.”

* * *

“Is Lady Sansa unwell, Your Grace?” Jon sighed.  He ought to have expected it.  Tyrion would have spoken to his other half.  He faced the other man, taking in the rest of the yard around him as he did.  Cerwyn was bending solicitously over Sansa’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of her gloved fingers.  Over his head, Sansa was giving Arya a reproving glare.  

“See for yourself, my lord,” Jon said.  He waited, tracking Cerwyn as he strode off, tossing his cloak about him.  He was taller than Sansa, which not many men could boast of, but looked like a lanky colt when he walked.  His sword flapped at his side— clearly, he did not use it much.  Varys’ words intruded once more.  

“No doubt she looks as lovely as ever.  But her silence today was worrisome.  From all accounts she has been quite active in such meetings before.  I would have thought, the growing affection between Lady Stark and my Queen that she would have objected to this plan for the Queen to go South.”

There were alone but for the snow.  And the wind was rising, enough for their words to be lost in it.  “My sister knows when and how best to speak.  She learned at the knee of tutors such as yourself, my lord,” Jon said.  “If she was silent today, it was because she knew that her expertise is not in matters military.”

“Perhaps.  I am of a different mind,” Varys made his reply.  He shifted, untucking his hands, until he took up the entirety of Jon’s view.  “She was silent, because she knew that finally her brother was ready to begin playing.”

He waited only a moment before speaking again. “It was neat today, Your Grace.  Oh it was tidy.  Making your lords and the Queen’s Hand think that you were ready to bend the knee out of love. You are quite the paragon.”  Varys smiled.  

The wind picked up and tore at his cloak.  Jon wrapped it well around himself and looked down at his feet before replying.  “The lady, my sister, does not play games Lord Varys.  She works to preserve all our lives.  Forgive me, but how am I to take your words?”  He felt the beating of his heart down into his toes.  

“You may take them as the accolades they are, Your Grace.  To have kept the army and the dragon, all the while ridding yourself of the element which could scorch you, was masterful—truly,” Varys stepped closer, “I wonder how you mean to control it.”

He paused, the smile slowly disappearing.  His voice became strange.  “I should like to see you control it.”  Jon opened his mouth to say something, feeling suddenly that he must say something or be caught.  As he made to reply, he heard Sansa’s voice calling to him.  He stepped away from the other man, looking for her.  She had gathered Arya to her side, a hand on her shoulder and Brienne behind.  

“You must excuse me, Lord Varys,” Jon said, backing away.  Walking away was like walking away unscathed from a fight.  He shook his cloak free and hurried his steps til he reached Arya.  He turned a glance upon them both, wondering.  

Sansa looked back at him mutely for a long moment.  “Sam is wanting to see you.  And we must decide what to do about this change to our plans.”  The reproving look was for him now— not just for unwanted suitors and untamable little sisters.  He supposed he deserved it.  Being smart meant listening to advice, not gambling it all on a throw of the dice.  He started to reach across Arya to grasp her hand, but thought the better of it.  They were watched all the time.  Varys was not the least of it.

He nodded to her instead and took a last look around the yard.  Here and there some of the high lords were clustered, no doubt digesting the sudden decision of the morning, and seeing how they could turn it to their advantage.  Among them though, were the smallfolk, looking as cheered as he had seen them.  He could almost see their thoughts dancing in the misty air above their heads.   _A dragon and army.  And nothing in return._

He made for the steps to the rookery, where Sam had hidden away.  The peaked roof of the rookery was thatch not stone.  Wind whistled through the cracks here and there and brought with it the chill.  The ravens hissed and clacked at every gust and hopped from one perch to another.  After a moment, Jon realized the hopping was their way of following Sam.  Sam who had dried corn in his fingers.  

“Aren’t you spoiling the things Sam?” Jon asked, settling himself into the doorway.  He watched Sam jump a little and look for the source of his voice.  “I’m in the door.  Finish what you’re doing,” Jon said.  He tightened his cloak around himself as he waited.  Here and there, the ravens made snug groups, nestled for warmth, and slept.  The others awake and sated with corn watched him with reflective eyes.  Jon wondered if Sam had been teaching them to say _Snow_ as he had the last ones.   _Targaryen_ was too many syllables for a bird.  

Sam wound his way through the perches until he stood before him.  “And how was it?” 

“Tyrion took the bait, Daenerys took the bait, my bannermen took the bait.  Varys did not,” Jon sighed, crossing his arms.  “I do not know what he will do—,”

 Sam interrupted, “I want to go South with them.”  The words hung there between them.  Then Sam barreled on.  “I won’t stay long, but I want to see to Mother and Talla.  Mother might be alright, but I cannot rest well without seeing for myself.”  He stopped, breathing hard.  

To say no would be cruel.  It was Sam’s right to look after his family.  Yet when Jon considered the journey and the folk that would be sharing it, he knew he could not in good conscience support the idea.  He walked away a little from Sam’s earnest face, and thought on the journey.  

South on horseback, then by ship, and then on horseback again.  Perhaps the snows would relent— but that was no matter.  Sam had seen worse storms north of the Wall.  Perhaps a guard to go with him.  But sellswords weren’t the true danger.  The true danger lay in the golden beauty of Daenerys and all her followers.  Jon tried to imagine Sam riding at her side and sidestepping all the danger-laden questions she and Varys and Missandei and Jorah Mormont were sure to ask.  He tried to envision Sam keeping pace with the Dothraki as they sped through the Riverlands and the Reach.  

Looking at Sam’s pale, set face, it was obvious that none of these arguments would work.  “What of Gilly and the baby?  Where will they go while you’re away for two turns?  Three turns?  Who will protect them?”

“You will,” Sam replied, his voice rising with incredulity.  Jon rolled his shoulders, sighing.  “Yes, of course I will.  But I have many depending on me to protect them.  I cannot have your woman and your child attached with a loop to my belt all the day long.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  Gilly can take care of herself and so can I.  I’ll go, see to Horn Hill, and come back before the fighting has even begun.”  Jon latched onto his words.  

“The fighting in which you, by rights, must take part in.  You are the rightful person to wield Heartsbane.  We need you and your steel here,” Jon said, knowing even as he said it, that the argument would fall on deaf ears.  

“Well it’s true enough that the sword is mine, but the crossbow is my weapon, by rights.  I’ll leave the blade here and if there is a need, any man can use it.  I’ll take one of the blades Gendry has forged.”  Sam peered at him closely.   “Don’t worry Jon.  I’ll be back.”  


	19. Chapter 19

Jon sat silent, instead of responding.  The snow fell on them both, blanketing them and the hills around.  The silence seemed too fraught to break, as though if one of them spoke too soon, they wouldn’t be able to bring themselves to say what it was that weighed upon them.  

A slight wind picked up after a few moments, rustling the bare limbs of the trees.  They both turned their faces into it, tasting more than feeling the chill deepening.  Grunting slightly in frustration, Jon rose from the ground and began to brush the snow off his shoulders.  Arya did the same beside him.  After a moment, she went on, “The girl you knew wanted adventures.  To go fight battles just like the knights in the tales did.  She wanted to be a knight and defend the weak,” she paused and turned to look into his face. 

“I still am that girl.” She finished, voice intent, “But I am No One, too.” 

Jon was silent for another moment, before replying.  “Fa—He believed in doing what was honorable, but we know that sometimes, survival means being dishonorable,” Jon sighed looking over at her.  “But this isn’t survival Arya.  This is risk taking, in order to commit a murder, which would in time take care of itself."

She felt it then: the weight of the things she had seen, the people she had lost and how she had lost them.  She knew that it was those things that had killed the girl she had been— the girl who believed in fairness and honor of the sort Jon was speaking of.  She loved Jon as much as she had when they were children.  He was still, even now, someone who could make her happy just by being in the room.  But they didn’t talk the way they had.  She did not run to him with her worries, and her fears, and her triumphs the way she had as a girl.  It was a strange feeling, having to acknowledge that childhood would never return, for any of them.  

“I’ll not say no, for it is not my place to forbid you anything you feel you must do.  But think what you do.  You would leave us and this time, perhaps, it would be the last.”  

“Come on,” Arya said, full of energy suddenly, as though to push away the heaviness of his words.  She untied the horses from the copse of trees.  She held the reins in her fist and tossed him his as he approached.  They swung up into the saddle, letting the wind push them toward home. 

“Will they be here before the sun sets do you think?”  Arya asked him.

Jon looked over at her sharply, and his voice when he answered was warning, “Not before nightfall, and when they come you’ll not interfere.  We need all of our bannermen alive and in possession of all their limbs.” 

“I’m not so bloodthirsty as to give any of them the gift before the battle has even begun,” Arya said in reply, idly.  “You said before that I get to choose, didn’t you?  Today, I’m choosing to follow orders.”

* * *

The awful screeching had Arya tumbling out of bed and reaching for her sword before she could begin to think about what the noise could be.  All that filled her mind was a foreboding sense of danger.  The night had been consumed with wolf dreams, more intense than the ones she’d had in Braavos.  

She’d been running with Ghost and the rest of her pack.  The little one’s howls had melded with her own.  Howls for joy it had seemed at the time.  That at least one brother still roamed the cold earth.  Now perhaps, Arya wondered, if they had been a warning.   Perhaps Nymeria had been racing toward her.   

The screeching stopped and Arya loosed her death grip on Needle’s hilt.  The dragons were here.  And there was nothing a sword could do about them.  She trod over to her bed, grasping Needle’s sheath and then tucked the sword away.  She looked at it, leather gleaming dully in the light of the fire, and sighed.  

A knock sounded on the door, Podrick by the sound of it.  He gave away his nervousness around her even in the way he knocked.  It reminded her of Hot Pie.  She pulled open the door and was gratified to see that she’d been right.  He stood, feet planted like a tree, and it was just as hard to believe that he’d gotten the better of a Kingsguard, even Joffrey’s Kingsguard, as it always was.  

For once, he was not smiling as she pulled open the door.  “My lady, the King wishes you to know Queen Daenerys’ dragons have come.”

Arya stared up at him for a moment, waiting.  When he didn’t say anything more, she spoke, “Is that all Jon said?  Nothing about how I’m not to knock any heads together?”

“… He may… he may have said something,” Podrick trailed off before rallying himself once more.  “His Grace said you’re to stay by Lady Stark and Bran today and watch over them.  And if you deviate, he’ll say no.”

Arya rolled her eyes and shut the door.  She wondered, prying open her trunk, if there were any clothes that could repel dragonfire.  Perhaps Gendry would know.  He worked with flames all the day long.  Her thoughts tracked from flames and dragons, back to her talk with Jon.

Jon hadn’t said no and he hadn’t said yes.  Surely, even he could see the benefit to giving Cersei Lannister the gift.  She tugged on the end of the cord that wrapped her slowly growing braid.  Looking down, readying to unlace and pull off her shift, she realized why Podrick had been more tongue tied than usual.  She may as well have been naked.  

She sighed and made a quick toilet.  Dragons were more important than baths.  She closed the door to her chamber a few minutes later, Needle grasped in her hand.  She hurried down the hall to the chambers Jon had given Sansa.  She was in time to come upon her sister as she came into the hallway.  Brienne saw her approach and greeted her warmly.  Arya found a smile for her and then turned the same smile upon Sansa who stopped and stared at her.  “Why are you smiling?”

Arya huffed a reply, feeling affronted, “I was smiling at Brienne, not you.  Can I not smile Lady Stark?”  She crossed her arms, waiting.  Sansa came close and jostled her until she made room for Sansa’s arm to link with hers.  She looked at her, frowning.  

“Come with me to the crypts.  It’s time to re-light the candles.”

* * *

“And you wish to do what precisely?”  

 “Avenge our parents and brother.  Avenge Jory and Septa Mordane and Ser Rodrik and everyone else who died because of _her_.”  Arya set her lips, trying to look resolute and not affrighted.  Because to herself she could admit it.  She did not want to go back to Kings Landing.  That was where Father had been killed.  And Syrio.  But if she shirked this duty, Cersei might live on.  She might survive the winter.   

“I cannot allow you to do this.  Jon said you could go?” Sansa said all in one breath.  

“He didn’t say I couldn’t go.  Just as he didn’t say I couldn’t marry Gendry if I wanted.” 

“Jon doesn’t say much,” Sansa replied.  It was a halfhearted grumble.  Then Arya saw her realize.  Eyes wide, she spoke, “Jon didn’t say you couldn’t marry Gendry.  Has Gendry asked you to _marry_ him?”  Her voice ended on a squeak.  

In embarrassment, Arya felt her face heating.  Blushing was not something a Faceless Man did.  She wasn’t a Faceless Man again yet.  She shrugged.  

“Arya,” Sansa said.  Arya glared at her, feeling all of nine summers again.  “Yes!  Alright?  Yes, and I didn’t give him an answer.”

“Why not?” Sansa asked.  “Was his proposal unwelcome?”  She paused and her voice became worried.  “Had he been pursuing you too strongly?  Should I speak to him?”

“No!”  She saw the worried look deepen.  She tried to soften her voice, “No, you don’t need to speak to him.  I’m going to talk to him today.”

“And say?”

“And say that I’m going to Kings Landing to murder the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, who as it happens may have killed your father too, and would you mind waiting until I’m quite done with that?”  Arya said.  She saw Sansa roll her eyes skyward and sigh.  It was true though.  

She wondered, not for the first time, if Father and Mother would approve.  Her lady mother hadn’t much liked bastards, or King Robert, from what she could recall.  But Robert had been Father’s friend.  He was to have married their Aunt Lyanna.  The same Aunt Lyanna who married Prince Rhaegar and gave birth to Jon.  The same Jon that Father had lied about from the day Jon was born.  It was a terrible mess.

Perhaps it didn’t matter.  Arya reached forward and brushed away a cobweb from Robb’s nose. They were gone now.  Given over to the gods, if the gods were real.  Or sleeping beneath the earth.  The dead, the true dead, slept without cares.  

“I don’t want you to go, and I’m going to tell Jon so.  You should go find Gendry before he is too busy to speak with you.  Tell him that you’d like him to wait.” Sansa waited until Arya nodded and then she swept both of them back to the yard.  Arya watched her hurry away, then turned her back and made for the godswood.  

“Hello, you old gods,” she called out quietly.   She had half expected Bran to be at the heart tree, but there was no trace of his wheel tracks on the snow.  A stiff breeze threw some of the powdery stuff into her face and she nearly tripped over a root.  When finally, she stood before the face, she felt uneasy.  She felt seen.  

“You’re listening I suppose,” Arya said.  She rubbed her gloved hands together and then knelt as she had done in front of the tree in the House of Black and White.  “I don’t really want to go, you know.  But I think I must.  I think Father and Mother and Robb and Rickon deserve to have the one who caused them to be killed put into the ground.  I think that Jon and Sansa and Bran deserve to be safe from her… and Gendry too.”  Arya sighed.  She almost wished Syria Forel were here, but though he had taught her to look with her eyes and hear with her ears, he had not taught her to know her mind.  That had been Jaqen, or the kindly man, or the waif.  Or no one at all.  Before that she had taught herself that nothing mattered more in the world than family.  Arya bowed her head, and then rose.  

“I’ll be back old gods,” she said, and patted the face.  She backed a little, reluctant to leave the tree.  The weirwood tree was her family too, in a strange way.  As she made to turn away, she felt again the sensation of being watched.  “Whomever you are, if you could come out.  I’m too tired to play.”  She thought perhaps it was the Faceless Man come to check her resolve, but nothing moved in the still quiet of the godswood.  Not even the wolves appeared, and they were close to Winterfell she knew.  She walked on, making her way slowly to the forges.  

The yard was deserted around him, or as close as Winterfell came to deserted these days.  There were people still, tooling leather and hauling supplies.  Peace still reined though, and for that Arya was grateful.  Ahead she could see Gendry, head bare and hands ungloved despite the cold.  She wondered sometimes if working so close to the flames made him relish the cold.  Maybe he loved the cold and Winterfell as much as he loved her.  Maybe he would be glad to wait for her return.  He could not have loved Kings Landing.  Before too long, her feet deposited her in front of him.  He looked down at her, suspiciously.  

“Good morning milady.”  The words were cautious.  She had tried not to spend overmuch time with Gendry alone these days.  It would have given him the wrong idea, when in fact she had no idea what she wanted.  That was over now.  She would serve one final time, and then be free to be Arya of House Stark.  She smiled up at him.

* * *

 

Presently, when Arya thought she heard the hustle and bustle of the yard increasing, she drew away from him and stood.  “Come with me and see Sansa and Bran.”  She extended her hand, until he took it.  He looked at her rather wonderingly.  Arya almost felt guilty but stifled the impulse.  He’d have Jon and Sansa and Bran to keep him company until she returned.  They’d be his family too, not just her.  She tugged on his hand to get him walking and then jerked to a stop as he pulled up.  She looked at him accusingly.  

“I nearly forgot it, sorry.”  He let go her hand and turned away to rifle through his few boxes.  The thing he had in his hand when he turned to face her was unidentifiable in the dim light.  As she squinted at it unsure, Gendry opened the door so more light would come through.  Then he tilted his hand, and Arya saw it was a pin.  A direwolf carried a fish between its jaws.  She reached out and ran a finger across the wolf.  It was fine whatever metal Gendry had worked it from.  It was too fine to wear daily.  She looked at him, and he answered her unspoken question.  “For when we say our vows.  You can pin it to your cloak to have your mother and father there too.”

Arya reached up then and kissed him.  “Thank you,” she murmured against his cheek.  She could feel herself trembling and felt ashamed for true.  Whipping herself about, she grasped the pin with one hand and taking his hand with the other she marched them from the outbuilding and into the wan sunlight.

* * *

 

“Congratulations.” Arya turned her head toward his voice, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.  Beside her, she could see Gendry blinking too.  “Thank you.  For what?”  

“Arya, really.  Sansa’s already been to tell me.  She’ll be back soon,” Bran said.  On his face, there was the hint of a smile, and Arya was glad of it.  Gendry was looking at them both, eyebrows raised.  “Gendry my brother doesn’t talk like other people.  You’ll be used to it soon.”  He shrugged and nodded and moved to bend over the fire.  When he had built it up, Gendry looked around the room nervously.  

“Ah.  So milord, this is your room?”  Arya sighed and sat on the bed.  She waved Gendry to sit beside her.  “Let’s talk about more important things,” Arya said, “Have you seen the dragons yet Bran?”  He smirked then, “Of course I have.”

“You know well enough what I mean,” Arya retorted.  Bran smiled a little wider.  “No, Jon and some of our bannermen have ridden out beyond Winterstown to see them there.  Once they’ve seen them, then they’ll return and discuss the next stage.”  Arya nodded and glanced at Gendry.  The next stage was forging more weapons and armor.  Gendry wasn’t the only smith in residence at Winterfell, but he was the only one who had even been close to dragonsteel.  Arya nibbled on her lip and fell silent.  She could feel Gendry looking at her.  He felt out of place and strange no doubt, but Arya had no desire to speak until Sansa returned.  She sat, thoughts tumbling around each other, gripping her gift in one fist.  

Then the door swung inward and Sansa came through, bringing a hint of pine and woodsmoke with her.  Arya looked at her closely.  She didn’t look as though she had gone riding too far.  Sansa smiled at Gendry and gave her a cross look on the quick, as she dropped into a seat.  

“Jon won’t say no.  He won’t see reason, the fool,” Sansa said.  It wasn’t quite an explosion, but with Sansa it was close enough.  She went on, Arya feeling every word like it was a blow.  “So I’ll say it. This is foolhardy and dangerous.  If our Mother were here she would forbid it.  She would tie you to your bed and set guards at your doors and send couriers throughout the North and Riverlands to tell them all that if you are seen, to send you home to Winterfell.”

“Father cannot want this.   _I_  do not want this,” Sansa finished.  The blood was high in her cheeks, and Arya wanted to scream that she didn’t want to go either.  Yet, it was clear enough to her that she must.  Why else would the gods have seen fit to send her to Braavos and learn what she had learned if it was not for this?  She was surprised when the bed dipped and rose beside her and then bewildered when Gendry dropped to his knees. 

“What are you doing?” Arya hissed.  She looked at him, alarm warring with enough fear and frustration to make her head hurt.  He made no reply to her, directing his words to Sansa instead.  “I can understand, Lady Stark, why you and the King don’t see me as a good match.  But I can care for her and make sure she’s free to live whatever type of life she wishes to live.  A smith is a trade, true enough, but my father was a highborn and—,” Gendry stopped abruptly when Sansa reached out to bring him to his feet.  

“Sit.  Sit down,” Sansa pressed him onto the bed and then backed away to her chair.  She tucked her hands away and glanced at Arya, consternation obvious.  In the face of that look, Arya could keep silent no longer.  

“Gendry… my sister isn’t talking about your offer of marriage.  She’s talking about the other offer I’ve received.”

“You’ve another offer?” he asked her, incredulous.  Arya sighed, “No.  I meant only that someone from Braavos has come to me and asked for my help.”  It was only a slight exaggeration.  In truth, they had placed the chance in her lap much the same as Gendry had given her the pin as his betrothal gift.  

She could see him thinking.  Braavos was where she had escaped after leaving the Hound for dead.  Braavos was the home of her dancing master.  Braavos was the place she’d learnt how to be a killer.  When he bent his gaze upon her again, Arya knew he was beyond anger.  He stood and moved back a pace, fists tight at his sides.  “You came to me and told me you—,” he began.  Arya talked over him.

“Because it’s the truth!  But I must do this thing, before,” Arya gestured at herself and him.  “She’s on my list,” Arya cried the words.  “One of the last left, and she’s the worst of them all.”

Gendry peered at her, worry battling with the fury still furrowing his brow.  He sighed, briefly, explosively.  “Who’re you talking of Arya?”

“Cersei Lannister,” Sansa answered for her, cheeks still bright lit with blood.  “She’s a danger to us, to everyone really, and Arya is too impatient for Daenerys to do what she will inevitably do with her dragons and her armies.”  Her voice was impartial, but Arya knew her sister.  Disapproval was highest when Sansa was expressionless.  

Gendry looked at her, anger gone.  In its place was hurt.  “I ran from you last time.  So is this my punishment?  To wait until you come back?  What if you never do?”

“I won’t leave you,” Arya said.  Her throat hurt and she pushed away the pain to keep talking.  If she could say the right words, he would be convinced, she knew it.  He always agreed with her in the end.  “I won’t leave you for long.  And while I’m gone, you’ll have Sansa and Bran and Jon to be your family.  Even when I’m back again, they’ll be your family too, just as I promised before.”

His face was still clouded.  He rubbed a hand over his face like an old man, and then opened his mouth to say something before shutting it again.  Then he came closer and laid his hands on her shoulders.  Leaning down, he kissed her lightly.  “You’re being stupid.  Milady.”  Then he backed and bulled his way for the door.  When he was through, he didn’t look back.

Arya made her way to the door and pushed it shut and leaned her head against it.  It was not the first time they had been angry with each other.  It would mend.  She would make it mend.  She wouldn’t die.  When she was ready, she turned around and leaned against the door.  Sansa had hidden her mouth behind her hands, but Bran looked back at her, resolute.  

“Is this duty or self-indulgence Arya?” he questioned her, voice cool.  She bristled at the implication.  She was a Faceless Man, and before they had come to her, she would never have thought to ride south and seek Cersei’s death.  She’d been content.  

“Duty,” she replied, shortly.  

“Love is the death of duty, a wise man said once.  Perhaps you should choose love instead.  I think sometimes, you’re the only one of us who can.  Be happy in our place.”  Bran said the words softly, but behind them, there was an unusual heat.  

“Mother’s words do not mention love,” she said in response.   _But they put family first_.  Killing Cersei was for the family, was it not?

Sansa stirred herself finally.  “You won’t change your mind.  Fine.  Do as you please.  But while you spy and assassinate have a care for us.  Take no unnecessary risks.  Bring yourself and Sam and Ser Davos back to us safely.”

Arya stood from the door and dropped onto the flags in front of the fireplace.  “Samwell and Ser Davos.”  

“Oh yes.  Ser Davos will travel South to White Harbor and Sam Tarly travels with him to the Reach.  He goes to succor his mother and sister who are there.  You may as well travel with him and see to it that he makes it there safely.  Then from there you can ride, or fly, or do whatever it is Faceless Men do to get to Kings Landing.”

“Whatever it is Faceless Men do?”  Arya parroted her words, trying to find it within her to be insulted.  Sansa raised an eyebrow and rose from the chair.  “I have preparations to make for your departure, and I’m sure Bran has much to tell you of the changed circumstances south of us.  Find me before the day is out, and we’ll see to your packing.”

Sansa swept out of the room in a swirl of skirts, frustration clear in every movement.  Arya peered at her brother, wondering what he would tell her.  

“If you’re going, then I have some suggestions."


	20. Chapter 20

It was curious, looking at his sister now.  She was beautiful, no doubt.  But her eyes seemed brighter than his.  Her hair more golden as she aged.  More lustrous as the babe grew inside her. Everything about her told of how content she was.  Queen of the realm, disputes be damned.  Free of debt and flush with soldiers, money, and power.  

She raised a ringed hand, languid and still so beautiful it made his toes curl.  “You’ve seen the error of your ways and brought back word of our enemies’ situation, I see.  We are not overmuch inclined to worry about the heathens and their fight against the Night King, but we will listen to your report.”  Forgiveness it was then.  In public at least.  For now.  Having her entire family abandon her rankled— that was clear.  He couldn’t blame her for wanting to make it clear to the court that her family was still on her side.

Absolute power was a heady brew for Cersei.  As she had been ever fond of telling him— she ought to have been born the man.  Standing before her now, seeing the swell of her stomach, he suddenly wished it too.  A twin brother would’ve solved the matter simply and cleanly.  No Joff with his foulness, no clever Myrcella, no sweet Tommen, it was true.   But then perhaps Father would have been content as Warden in the West with Cersei to rule after him.  He would’ve had Jaime at the King’s side, ready to save them all from burning when the time came.   

Robert, the sloppy bastard, would’ve married some tart no doubt and whatever children he managed to get on the poor thing would’ve inherited the realms. 

It would have been neat.  Too neat for Cersei and his lord Father.  The Lannisters as simple bannermen.  Lesser men.   That would have been untenable.  Cersei did not know contentment.  All that mattered was her ambition.  Her wishes.  

That settled into him cleanly and let him ignore the twinge and itch of his missing hand.  If she killed him, that was that, but he had honor now.  He could discharge the duty that the Stark girl had laid on him.

“Your Grace, I do have a report.  Though I hoped it might be presented to you and your advisors alone.  There are spies everywhere.”  Cersei quirked an eyebrow at him and rose slowly.  The court knelt— a new habit.  “Dismissed,” she said, shortly.  The court rose and bowed like the trained monkeys they were.  When the last of them had filed out and the doors had swung shut, his sister approached him.  

It was just a bit easier, seeing that Greyjoy was still gone.  Having to contend with his wild laughter and sudden rages would have strained even his fledgling patience.  It had been bad enough listening to Bronn go on and on about how stupid he was being by going back to Kings Landing.  How the Stark girl and the giant wench and that poor crippled bastard had gotten under his skin as bad as his sister ever did.  

And now he was gone.  He’d not been willing to see Cersei.  In his own words “if she’s to kill ya, she’ll do worse than that to the likes of me”.  He was a cowardly shit, but it was comforting to know the man was at least consistent.   

The heels of her shoes clacked as she walked, and he brought his attention to bear upon her.  “You didn’t want anyone to see you apologizing I assume.  Let’s skip that part.  Why are you here?”

“Who said anything about apologizing?”  Jaime watched her mouth twist, lids shuttering her eyes for a moment.  When she glared up at him again, he was prepared for vitriol.  

“Fine.  You don’t intend to apologize.  Why are you here?  Your fat cow not enough you?  The Targaryen girl too young for you?  The North is too cold?  What is it?”  She paused, head tilting and a sudden smile blazed across her face.  His heart lurched.  “Have you brought me a gift?”

“A gift?  No.  A request.  From S— Jon Snow.  He’d like you to marry him and give him the Greyjoy girl as a betrothal gift.”  

“You are joking,” she replied, smile slowly dying.  

“No,” Jaime replied.  He deserved to be beaten about the head.  As ever, in Cersei’s presence, his mouth needed a governess.  He tried again, “I suppose you could count a peace offering as a gift.  It’s not as though you have a use for the Greyjoy girl with Euron hanging about.”

Cersei drew herself closer to him.  “So what, I pray you tell me, are you here as?  As an envoy?  A hostage?”

Jaime hesitated.  It was one thing to suddenly give his sister a marriage proposal from an enemy house.  It was quite another to reveal that he was sworn to a member of said house.  Hesitating for too long, as on the field, led to defeat.  Cersei answered the question herself.  

“You are speaking for them.  For Jon Snow, and his whore sister.  Of your own accord,” Cersei said, wonderingly.  She turned away, hands folded neatly over her belly.  

“I was concerned for you, and that is why I returned.  But yes, I would have had to come anyway to bring you their offer.”  Jaime hoped she couldn’t tell that half of that was a lie.  From the glance she gave him, she apparently thought he needed more practice.  

“They let you go, unscathed, and only asked that you bring me their offer,” she laughed, once, a deep bark from her chest.  “You were dead weight they wanted to rid themselves of brother.  They’ve sent you back to me because you had no value to them.  ‘Kill him, kiss him, what do we care?’,” she tossed him a glance full of scorn.

“And what do I care?” Cersei said starting to walk away.  Jaime stood, facing the throne, belly welling with hate for it and himself.  “Useless perhaps.  But they make the offer in good faith Cersei.  They’ve sent me to tell you one other thing.”  He waited until her shoes ceased their interminable slap against the flags.  “You will face an attack quite soon from the next wave of Daenerys Targaryen’s army.  They will come by boat from Essos, ten thousand strong.  Your Euron Greyjoy may kill some of them.  But he will not kill enough.”

* * *

He ought to have known that she’d throw him into a cell.  It was pretty enough, and but for the guards on the door it would have made a good guest chamber.  He would have been satisfied, as much as one could being under guard, were it not for the gaping hole on the horizon where the Sept had been.  It kept making him stop and stare— as though the months away had somehow let him forget the fire and destruction Cersei had rained on her enemies. 

Jaime sighed, pacing, massaging the stump of his wrist.  He had been stuck in this infernal room for a week.  Waiting for Cersei to come.  With The Mountain, perhaps.  Or the weasel faced Maester.  Though perhaps in the months away she’d found some other pet monster to keep at her side.  Something or someone to take his place as her favored grotesque. 

As though his thoughts had summoned him, a knock came on the door to his chamber.  It was the weasel.  He minced into the chamber and said his greetings before falling silent.  When at length he realized that there would be no response, the Maester smiled a little.  “Are you sulking Ser Jaime?  Your sister, the Queen, has many cares to worry her, so sends me in her stead.”

“Many cares,” Jaime drawled the words and backed slowly into a chair.  “And you?  Do you have many cares Qyburn?”  Jaime watched the smile flit across his face.  It was secretive.  

"As it happens Ser Jaime, I do.  Her Grace has charged me with the task of responding to the Stark’s offer of marriage,” he went to the door then, still speaking, “She’s asked me to craft this missive with your help.  A bannerman knows his lord’s mind the best, she said.”

He came trotting back, a servant toting a writing desk laden with parchment and quill.  He took it from the servant and dismissed him with a wave of his head.  He paused, waiting, until Jaime stood from the solitary chair.  Jaime moved away.  “Are you expecting me to dictate? You know how it should read.”

Jaime walked slowly over to the window.  The air rose fresh and fetid all at once.  Was it possible that his sister would actually take the offer seriously?  He could not see it happening— the Stark bastard and Cersei.  There were too many years between them, and if Cersei had a truly desirous bone in her body, it wasn’t for dark haired little boys.  She could not think to share the realms with him.  

He rubbed the stump of his wrist, thinking furiously.  A possibility still remained.  Cersei thought having a friendly North would be handy when the Targaryen girl made her way South once more.  The breeze blew again and Jaime turned his face away from it.  He tried to banish the memory of Daenerys Targaryen’s face glowing with unholy glee at the thought of burning Kong’s Landing.  It was a wonder that Snow was able to countenance speaking to her, let alone lying with her.  For of course, there was no doubt the bastard had found his way to her bed.  It was clear from the way she looked at him.  

“My lord?  Would like to hear my progress?” Qyburn asked.  Jaime waved his arm.  Qyburn began, “To the bastard Jon Snow, rebel and traitor to the Iron Throne, Her Majesty Queen Cersei, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm sends her greetings.  Your envoy and hostage, Jaime Lannister has reached our city and given to our ear your message.  In the Light of the Seven, we cannot in all conscience believe this warning you have given us nor understand the requests you have made of us.   We understand that at the far end of Seven Kingdoms, the common sense that the rest of the realm enjoys is on occasion, quite lacking.  Thus, without hostility, we decline your offer of marriage.  Yet, we shall give into your care, the rebel Yara Greyjoy.  To placate the invader you have sworn yourself to, we shall give over to your charge Ellaria Sand.  And until such time that the war between our Houses is ended we only ask for one thing in return.  Give us Sansa Stark.  Your father, promised King Robert, to marry a Stark into our family.  We wish to uphold this oath.”

Jaime snatched the parchment from the desk, his hand trembling.  His eyes skimmed across the page, hoping Qyburn had the sense of a goose.  He hadn’t.  Jaime tossed the paper to the floor and stepped on it, crumpling the parchment under his feet.  “Does she truly think that the Starks would’ve sent me to warn against another attack out of the goodness of their cold dead hearts?  They need Sansa to survive to even have a chance of defeating Daenerys!  Make Cersei see sense Qyburn.  This letter cannot be sent.”

The air in the room was sweltering, intolerably warm.  Jaime raised his hand to his shirt ties, jerking at them irritably, only to be struck by cold in the next moment.  “The letter has already been sent.  It has been sent everywhere.  Posted where any man, woman, and child in the Seven Kingdoms can see.”

“But the warning was taken to heart, never fear Ser Jaime.  The Queen knows Jon Snow for a man of his word.  She believed him,” there was a pause as Qyburn ambled nimbly to the window.  “See Ser Jaime.  The Iron Fleet has already returned to protect us.  And look, they’ve brought the Golden Company.”

* * *

The golden hand hung lank at his side.  The armor chafed, even though it was his.  He walked slowly so as not to jostle any of the ribbons and medals that had been pinned to him.  A few steps up and then he was at Cersei’s side.  A smile, one that was private to them, stole its way across her face.  It said, as it had always, _come let’s see what glorious mischief I have found for us_.  Jaime’s belly cramped and a bead of sweat rolled down his back.  How many others had she shared that smile with?  Qyburn?  Euron, pinned with accolades too?  

Like the itching of his right hand, there was a thought in his head now that he could not seem to banish.  Cersei’s hand rose to straighten one of his medals.  She brushed the hand across his cheek.  “How handsome you look again.”  Then she stood facing the court, and Jaime moved away.  

“Thanks to the actions of our Master of Ships and our Queensguard, we have been warned of an assault soon to begin on these shores” Cersei raised a hand to quiet the murmurs that rose, “We have brought the Golden Company to supplement the forces that the monstrous invader Daenerys Targaryen burned on her field of fire.  We are confident in our men and in our machines of war.  But we warn you to be on your guard against assassins and spies in the coming days.  That monster has taken the Spider and the Imp as her advisors.”

Euron smiled around the room then, no doubt thinking of more poor jibes to make about Tyrion.  “Your Grace,” he said, voice lilting drunkenly, "let us not speak of such sad matters.  We all know we’re going to win anyway!”  The court clamored, cheering a little.  “We have more joyful matters to attend to don’t we?”  He faced her, smiling wolfishly.  Cersei stared down at him.  When the court was silent again, she responded.  “Yes, you shall have your reward for loyal service.  But as a woman, and as your Queen, are we not due somewhat more tenderness?”  She turned, her black, armored skirts swishing and sat the throne again.  

The crown with the jewels inlaid so smartly caught the light.  There was a sigh, of pleasure perhaps, from one or two feminine voices in the throng.  Not for the first time, Jaime wondered at Cersei’s choice to burn so many of her courtiers.  Had it been simple luck that so many of her smartest courtiers had been in the Sept?  Had she encouraged them somehow to attend?  

Whatever the case had been, only idiots were left.  And cowards.  Like him.  If he had the maddened courage of twenty years ago, then all of this would be over.  He tugged at the suffocating surcoat Cersei’s servants had forced him to wear. There were too many layers to the costume she’d given him.  Or indeed, maybe he’d become accustomed to the cold of the North.  

He watched, sweltering and sweating as Euron dropped to a knee.  He threw his arms comically wide, “Your Grace, I kneel before you.  My heart bleeds for you.  My ships are yours.  My men are yours.”  He threw his head back and ripped at his jacket.  

From the corner of his eye, Jaime could see Cersei’s expression.  Euron’s chest, from what Jaime could see was covered in scars or tattoos.  They snaked in strange patterns and as Jaime stared, they seemed to move.  He tore his eyes away and saw Cersei had done the same.  

“My lord, do clothe yourself.  I see we must come to an agreement on what constitutes romance.”  As she spoke Euron smiled beatifically and laced up his jacket once more.  “And as we navigate the waters of romance together, I do hope we can navigate the defense of the realm.”

“Oh yes.  The Captain awaits you, Your Grace,” Euron stood and bowed.  “Excellent.  Then this court is adjourned,” Cersei replied.  Jaime watched the sheep kneel and rise and file out through the doors.  He watched Cersei and Greyjoy, feeling no particular desire to protect his sister from what the man obviously wanted.  She could hold him off on her own.  

“With your leave, Your Grace?” Euron said, moving toward the Small Council chamber behind the throne room.  Cersei raised a hand, airily.  As he strode away, she lifted her eyes to meet Jaime’s own.  “You disapprove, clearly,” she said. 

“He’s going to kill you, so yes,” Jaime replied shortly.  “But you are the Queen and can fuck whom you please, marry whom you please.  What does it matter to me?”

Cersei stared at him.  Before she could give voice to her thoughts, a guard opened the doors at the far end of the throne room.  He bowed and waited there.  When Cersei called for him to approach, he ran, sword and armor clanging.  He knelt, “Your Grace, there has been a report that ships have been seen with the Second Sons banner hoisted.” 

“Where?” Cersei said.  She stood, hands gripped in front of her belly.  Her hands were white at the fingertips.  

“Sailing toward Oldtown,” the guard began, “and toward Lannisport.”  Jaime laughed, despite himself.  “You mean toward the Iron Islands and the North,” he laughed again.  

It was clever, slower but still clever.  Why run the risk of the Stepstones and whatever ships lay in wait within the Narrow Sea?  Go straight to where the heart of the problem lay.  The Iron Islanders wouldn’t stand a chance and then the Second Sons could roll southward over anything that stood in their way.  The Riverlands would not gainsay them, nor the Vale.  Most like they wouldn’t even try.  Nor would the Reach with all their men dead.  What could a company trapped in the Crownlands and in Kings Landing do against the combined might of the Dothraki, the Unsullied, the Second Sons, and two dragons?  And the people of Westeros too?  

The thought that itched at him came again.  Instead of raising his sword though, Jaime smiled at his sister.  He tugged off the surcoat and dropped it to the floor.  Smiling still, he bowed and walked away.  It felt good.  

* * *

They would not let him keep his sword, so there was no chance to improve his swordsmanship in the weeks since he had walked away from Cersei again.  Perhaps his sister thought he would repent, the longer he lay trapped in the cell.  But it was more comfortable than the pen Robb Stark had placed him in.  And there was no end to the parchment, quills and ink the servants provided.  

It let him practice his writing.  So far, he had written long rambling letters that Mrycella and Tommen would never have a chance to read.  A missive to his lady mother to apologize for being a dunderhead.  Several angry tirades to Tyrion mixed with apologies for not protecting him as he ought to have.  A letter to Brienne that had made his guts cramp with nerves.  He kept that one next to his skin.  No need to court a painful death at the hand of Ser Gregor by offending Cersei.  Offending Cersei more. 

Jaime sighed.  The only thing he missed was the window.  He wanted to see what Euron Greyjoy, that flamboyant, murderous tart, would do now that his seat was threatened.  Would he abscond from the capitol with the fleet?  And the Golden Company?  He supposed his curiousity meant he wasn’t quite resigned to being dead yet.  Rolling to his feet restlessly, he thought of the goodbye he’d said to Tyrion in a cell like this.  

He had no older brother to unlock the cell for him.  

A clanging noise had Jaime whipping around to face the door.  It was swung wide.  Bronn stood there, keys dangling from his fingers.  Jaime stared at him wondering if he was asleep.  

“Well come on then.  That Qyburn fellow has urchins everywhere watching.  I’ve put a few to sleep and bribed a few more.”  When Jaime made no move toward the door, Bronn stepped in and grabbed him.  Dragging him by the arm, Bronn pulled Jaime from the cell.  After a while Jaime was glad of the territorial grip on his arm.  The paths beneath Red Keep were not for the faint of heart and Jaime had no idea where they were going.  

Light finally spoke from ahead of them and Bronn released the deathly tight hold on his arm.  “Time to pay the piper, eh.”  Before Jaime could open his mouth to ask what that meant, they were emerging into the weak light of early morning.  A few steps below them was a shore.  Jaime could see figures clad in brown homespun standing there.  He made a noise of protest to Bronn but was shushed and hurried down to the beach. 

At their approach, the figures revealed themselves to be a bunch of thugs.  Jaime wiped his good hand over his brow, relieved.  The relief disappeared when one of the figures threw back their hood.  

“Is that all of ‘im?”  Euron asked Bronn, eyes scanning Jaime insultingly.   _The bastard.  All three of them, bastards._

“Oh yeah.  Hand and everything.  Now about this plan to use him as an hostage?”  Jaime shivered suddenly, thoughts swirling in a different direction entirely.  

“Are you cold?  You got weak from being in the cells a few weeks did you?”  Euron asked.  Jaime didn’t respond immediately.  

“Greyjoy, you are the stupidest turd I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.  A hostage against whom?  My sister?  You’ve seen how she is toward me.  You cannot think that I have any value as a hostage.  Kill me, and Bronn there, now and save yourself some trouble.”  He sent a cutting glance at Bronn who didn’t have the grace to look away.  Jaime felt better, oddly, in the face of his brazenness.  

The turd hooted with laughter.  He bent double, clutching his belly.  After a few minutes, he straightened and dabbed away the wetness at the corners of his eyes.  “Not your sister fool.  You’re going to be my wedding gift to Daenerys.  I’ll give her Kings Landing and Jaime Lannister tied to a stake.  She’ll give me one of those sweet dragons and her hand.”

He raised a hand and his thugs came forward with ropes and a hood.  When he was trussed, Euron took the hood and played with the hem gently.  “Your sister,” he laughed again, gravelly and low.  “She doesn’t keep her promises, so why ought I?”

The hood was tugged over his eyes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to the awesome @misssunnybluesky for the beta read! Any weird bits or errors left are completely my fault.


	21. Chapter 21

“What of it Daario Naharis? Your Queen no longer interests you? All because she has taken it upon herself to defend the realm she calls home?” Melisandre asked. 

“No. Oh no. Daario Naharis will never be uninterested in the comings and goings of Daenerys Targaryen. Yet it is precisely because she is my Queen— the Mother of Dragons— that I hesitate to approach her thus.” He paused for breath and caressed the handles of his daggers, as he did every time the Targaryen girl’s name was mentioned. “She did not want me to come.”

“Yes. We have seen as much. She thought you would serve her best in Essos. In a fit of temper you decided to join her anyway. Since you’ve made your decision, why do you baulk? Are you afraid she may reject you, again?”

“Fear is an emotion I have no claim to knowing Priestess.”

“All men have fears. The Red God sees them. Numbers them. He gives you the strength to surmount them.” 

He flicked a glance at her, devilment brightening his temper. “Your baby priests have certainly seen the weaknesses of my Second Sons. I’ve never seen them so devout. They’re afraid to piss without the Red God’s say-so.”

Melisandre ignored him. He was a child, with a child’s love of perverse amusement. The hard, driving sail from Essos had given her an appreciation for his talents— fighting and keeping men in good heart, but he was impenetrable in all the ways that it truly mattered. Even now, Melisandre was still not able to tell if the man meant to support the Mother of Dragons or subdue her. She pushed it from her mind, for it mattered not. His men were enthralled with her and her victories on the field. Contracts, no matter how lucrative, could always be broken. The Temple of R’hollor was not without resources. 

“What would suit you best Daario Naharis? A storm to frighten them from their beds, to dash their ships upon the rocks? Or a becalmed sea?” Melisandre leaned over the rail. Below, the waters were iron grey. His reply was slow.

“There is a story of a king who strode through these waters and knocked down the Iron Islanders seawall with one stroke of his hammer. I dare not aspire to such heights, but I imagine the man had fair weather that day. If we could manage the same, I would be grateful.” Melisandre smiled, despite herself. She replied, “As you wish. But a question: once you have secured these islands, where will you lead your men?”

“I do believe that is the sound of my lieutenant calling my name. I should go see what’s amiss, shouldn’t I,” Daario made his escape, and Melisandre felt a faint stirring of unease. To crush the Iron Islands would draw the ire of Euron Greyjoy. It might even draw his ships away from Blackwater Bay, but it was no guarantee. If he ordered them to make a landfall, then he could lead his mercenaries North or he could lead them South. Melisandre made a noise of disgust. What the boy would do or wouldn’t do mattered little. She would force him North to Daenerys’ side, to Jon Snow’s side, no matter what he thought he would be doing.

She turned her face up to the sun, thinking ahead to the battle. There would be deaths aplenty and more servants for R’hollor before long.

——————————————————————

As she’d promised the boy, the seas had been calm. The sun had even been shining. It had been clear enough for the ironmen to have long seen the approach of the galleys. Long enough for them to mount a defense against the raiders come to destroy and enslave. But what greeted them were fishing boats crewed by old men, old women, and children. The Second Sons rolled over them all like and swept them out to sea. Those that survived, Daario had rounded up and brought to her on Pyke. 

He’d not lingered and appeared supremely unconcerned. “Payment,” he’d said, suave as ever. His face had showed the marks of the battle, though. When Melisandre had reached a hand to trace the contusions on his face, he’d held still. Fear, finally, perhaps. Whatever it was, he’d run quick enough. 

Melisandre let her acolytes walk amongst the captives and tend them, and waited. Soon enough, it would be time to sail once more. To make their way overland to White Harbor. To go North to Jon Snow and the Night King. 

“Priestess,” from behind a voice rose querulously. It was once of the acolytes, standing uncertain in the doorway. 

“What is it, child?” Elyana hesitated a moment more and Melisandre turned to face her fully. “Speak.” 

“There is one among the captives who demands to an audience with you. He wishes to go to the shore and pray. He will not be silent,” she said. She pushed a stray curl off her forehead in consternation. Melisandre was proud of how far she had come, but these little gestures were clear signs of inner turmoil to any who knew to look. 

“Fetch him,” Melisandre sighed, “and when you have done that, you too should pray. For freedom from doubt and other such afflictions. I expect you to master these habits. And that soon.”

“Yes Priestess,” Elyana replied. Her voice trembled and then steadied. When she returned she had a elderly man in tow. He was bound as all the captives were and would remain. His neck, corded with ropy muscle held a head topped by scraggly grey strings of hair. When she met his roving gaze, their eyes locked and held. 

“A Priestess of the Red God, is this what Euron brings to the Iron Islands?” He sneered and spat on the rushes. 

Melisandre peered at him— there was no power here. The simple conviction of a countryside preacher, perhaps. “Your nephew has not brought me here Aeron Damphair. Though he serves the Lord, as we all do.” She laid a hand upon his brow. “As you will, soon enough.”

She drew her hand down and away. The aged eyes were still clear. “You are known beneath the sea, Melisandre of Asshai. You may work your will upon me and my people, but when all is said and done, it is not we who will suffer,” he shook his bound wrists at her. “I will say my final prayers and then you might do as you wish.”

Nodding at him, she kept her disquiet off her face. She watched him shuffle away, and puzzled over his words. By whom am I known? There was only one god. She stirred herself and let the thoughts bleed away. The words of old men had no importance. Only the work mattered. Only saving the realms from the Other mattered. 

Presently, she left the chamber she’d taken for herself and moved to make the arrangements. Burning Damphair as a sacrifice to the Lord would bring some of Summer’s heat back to Westeros for a time. Enough to make the game emerge from their hiding places, enough to make a march North one that an army from the East could endure. 

By evenfall, Daario Naharis had reappeared with the pick of his guard, a hundred men or more. At her word, they harried the captives down to the beachfront. There, her acolytes had made of driftwood a platform and stake. Torches stood about it, waiting to be put to their use. Looking upon it, listening the voices of the Iron Islanders rise in horror as they looked upon the stake, Melisandre was touched suddenly with recollection. 

Another beach. Another group of souls in need of the Lord’s fire. The cold face of Stannis and the enthralled face of his queen, the sickened and stolid face of the Onion Knight. There was a man that the Lord could use. She wished, for the space of a breath, that she had not burned the girl. Then perhaps, whispering in Jon Snow’s ear, there would have been an ally. She sighed, raising a hand to her chain and the stone that lay quiescent within it. That was through now. 

A cleared throat jarred her from her thoughts. The boy looked to her, his mouth set into an unfamiliar line. No doubt Daario liked burning folk to death as little as the next man. Knowledge of her power and need of it kept him silent. 

Under her eye and at her nod, he severed the bonds of Damphair from the rest and marched the man forward. The old man’s eyes were still clear. He gazed at her, untroubled. They waited there together, the young man and the old. The veiled revulsion of the boy made no matter, but the peace of the Greyjoy baffled her. He was certain in his faith. As she had taught herself to be once again. His certainty of what, is what bedeviled her. 

Could he believe rescue was near? She sighed, low and long. Waving the two onward she turned her mind to the spectacle ahead. The captives, some highborn and some low, had been forced to their knees and looked to her with fear. A man spat in her direction and one of her acolytes slapped him. 

Melisandre raised a hand and the acolyte subsided. She said, pitching her voice above the crash of the waves, “Do not fear. We mean to free you of your false god and of your pitiful submission to the Iron Throne. Your lords, the Greyjoys have brought no wealth to these lands with their interminable wars and petty squabbles amongst themselves.” She moved so they could see the ablutions Damphair was making. 

“For all his drowning and prayer, what has Aeron Greyjoy and his Drowned God some for the Iron Islands? What gold, what steel, what plenty has he given you?” 

“I will save you from him, from the rest like him, and give him as a sacrifice to the one true god, the Red God. The Lord will bring warmth to your seas and new shoots of hemp and ironwood will sprout from your lands. You will fish and sail in freedom, in the light of the Lord.” Melisandre observed their faces. None were convinced, but that was to be expected. They were prisoners yet. Once they saw the truth of her words, then they would come to realize the power of the Lord. 

She stepped away toward the stake and waited. The man Damphair submerged himself again and again. When finally, as the sun began its last descent below the horizon, Melisandre sighed. She raised a hand and gestured. Her acolytes came forward, one holding a torch. She kept him, Talwyn, at her side while the others waded into the sea. They passed Daario, who stood watching blank-faced as Damphair drowned himself. 

With some struggle, they reached him and grasped him. After a moment of struggle, he hung docile in their arms. On the shore, once more, they stripped him of his clothes until he wore nothing but a breechclout. They marched him up the wooden platform and bound him to the stake. Retreating, her acolytes formed a half circle about her. She turned and grasped the torch, then approached. Damphair was smiling.

Melisandre looked up at him and smiled in turn. She had planned to say more, to rouse the onlookers against him and his family. Instead she dropped the torch on the steps of the plate form and backed away. Flames licked at the steps and climbed. She backed again, watching as they climbed to the base of the stake and then rose, bending and bowing. 

The screams came after a time, but Melisandre knelt surrounded by Elyana and Talwyn and all the rest and could not hear them. When finally she rose again, she could feel to the tips of her fingers, the Lord’s presence. He was in the air she breathed, in the wind blowing gently from South and East. He was in the sea, and the sand, and birds in the air. Even the crows felt him, screaming and cawing as they were. 

The blood of kings was the strongest of sacrifices, as ever. His blood would bring a reprieve that would last weeks, if not months. Enough for triumph to be had. Melisandre dusted the sand from her skirts and turned to lead the way back to the castle. 

Daario barred her way. He smiled, crookedly but it without charm. “You have my thanks Lady.” Melisandre nodded and waited for him to move. When he did not, she said, “Daario Naharis, remove yourself. I must rest and so too must these captives be taken back to their places.”

“Rest you shall have Melony,” he replied and stepping closer drew a line across her throat with his blade. She fell, and heard screams begin anew. Talwyn rushed forward and took a blade to the belly. Then men were surging about them. She saw Elyana fall, dark curls loosed finally from their braid. 

When it was done, a matter of minutes later, Daario returned to her. 

“You were warned, were you not? The King in the North swore to hang you for a murderer if you returned North. Yet, you came,” the boy paused. “What havoc you would have wrought.” The boy stood, and the crows screamed. 

Melisandre moved then, faintly, defiantly. It had been before her eyes all along. She was shamed, but not without resources. To make a last stand was possible, even yet, against the Other. She thought of the flames that had licked at Aeron Damphair and knew what she would do. 

She raised a hand, struggling against a cold that had gotten into her bones. Shadows winked in the corner of her vision. _Why curse me? I am already cursed._ Her hand fell and the voice that had spoken left her.


	22. Chapter 22

“My lords, you will have seen the reports we’ve had from Lord Commander Tollett.  You will have heard the reports from myself, my brother Bran, and Tormund.  The Wall is all but dust at the Shivering Sea.  The dead are scrambling over and around the ice that guarded our realm for 9,000 years.  And the Night King leads them.”  Jon paused then called for Cerwyn, planted at the other side of the table, “My lord, you have been to our way stations.  Have checked on our men and heard their reports.  What have you found?” 

Cerwyn leaned forward, clearing his throat and glancing toward Sansa.  “It is as you say, Your Grace.  The dead come closer every day.  Every walker we see, we have picked off with the raw dragonglass arrowheads from Dragonstone, but the numbers we must kill grow daily.”  Sansa watched the men’s faces.  Jon had chosen well.  Cerwyn was no battle hardened veteran, but he had an eye for practicalities and could sum a situation up a situation better than most.  Sansa listened curiously.  She knew the generalities of Jon’s plan but now he unfolded the specifics.  They would range North, East to the Wolfswood, and West.  Balefires would be lit at every point, like pearls on a string, and stay lit.  The moment one blinked out, then they would know the army of the dead had come.  Then the ranks of the Unsullied and the Northmen on horseback would form up to protect Winterfell in all directions, but south.  At the south, there would be the dragon. 

She had ridden beyond Winterstown, Brienne and Pod in tow, after Arya had come to her with the fool idea seek Cersei’s death.  She had seen finally the monsters Daenerys called her children.  They were wondrous beasts, with cruel, sharp teeth and claws.  The biggest one had a maw large enough to swallow the First Keep.  She had shivered, sick with dread at the sight.  Nor had she been alone.  The lords there had been pale, most of them, and silent.  The Queen had taken no notice or if she had, did not care.  She cooed over them and fussed as though they were true children.

“Jon Snow,” came Grey Worm’s voice.  Sansa was surprised; he rarely spoke during these meetings, preferring to make his points to Jon alone.  “Unsullied are ready to fight this Night King.  Send us to stations; we would fight now.  To wait makes us weak.”  Sansa tilted a look toward Jon.  It was her opinion, as well, though Jon held that to wait was the safer approach. 

“We dare not risk it, Captain,” Jon began.  “We shall need every Unsullied solider to support us here, once the onslaught begins.  What’s more pressing is how to best make use of Rhaegal.”  He looked around the solar, as a grumble of voices rose in response to his words.  “You do not mind the fire he has lit in Winterfell’s forges.  He can be used, surely, as a last resort.” 

“Perhaps so, Your Grace,” Sansa heard herself saying.  “The true issue is how to control it when Queen Daenerys has gone.  For now, the dragon is docile, but when its mistress is thousands of leagues away, who is to say what may occur?”  Jon gave her an irritated glance and his brow furrowed further when a murmur of agreement went around the room.  “Daenerys has promised us that her dragon Rhaegal will obey her wishes, even from so far away.”  The words rang true, but Sansa doubted them all the same. 

Sansa thought back to the day Tormund and Edd had arrived on the back of a lathered horse.  They’d been as close to dead as Sansa had ever seen a man come without actually being dead.  With time though they had told them.  Bran had seen it true.  The dragon Viserion had been awakened and made one of the Night King’s creatures.  Tormund had walked along the top of the Wall for weeks, warning every stronghold along the way to go south. 

He’d arrived at Castle Black to find that Edd was preparing to send men to the top in the direction of Eastwatch.  Instead, Tormund had warned them away and convinced the men of the Watch to abandon their posts.  When Tormund and Edd had told him of their trek south, Sansa had been watching Jon’s face.  Jon’s eyes had been cold ever since she had told him of Sam’s father and brother, though it was not obvious to those who did not know him.  But Sansa knew him now; better than she ever had as a child.   His eyes could not meet hers as they listened to the story that emerged between the wheezes and coughs, and she knew in that moment he thought they were going to perish.  Sansa felt all her muscles of her belly clench, but the moment passed, and Jon mastered himself enough to put Tormund and Edd to bed and drive his men and the Unsullied even harder in training.

“Because of Rhaegal, we have now the means to destroy him as our ancestors were unable to do,” he paused, taking a deep breath.  “We will not be forced to abandon our people to a cold death like the one that overtook the party at Long Lake.”  His mouth twisted.  Sansa ached for him, for she had felt the same guilt.  She settled forward in her seat, glad that she could lay aside the meek mask she had worn for so many weeks.  “This is true.  Yet, a guarantee of Rhaegal’s docility would be most appreciated Jon.”  Santa watched him closely.  His eyes cut away from her for the briefest instant.  She held herself still.  It would not do to give any of the men listening the idea that their King was lying.  Yet, she wondered, what game Jon was playing that he was unwilling to share. 

Jon responded finally, “Daenerys is a warg, Sansa.  She can control Rhaegal no matter where she is.  We are her allies, and she intends to protect us, even as she fights Cersei Lannister in the South.”

“A warg?” Lord Royce interjected.  His face was all disdain.  “You have no tales of wargs in the Vale, Lord Royce?” Jon replied.  Royce shook his head with a sniff.  “Tales for children certainly.  Men of years pay no heed to such nonsense.”  Sansa tried to catch Jon’s eye.  She needn’t have bothered.  Jon swallowed whatever the retort was to have been and said mildly, “Beyond the Wall, there are wargs, my lord.  In mine own family tree, there are wargs.  Believe what you will; it is not my place to force you.  Simply know that Daenerys will be as good as her word.  I can guarantee it.”  Jon met Sansa’s eyes, and Sansa brought herself to nod.

“Then we move to our next topic.  The balefires and the ramparts,” Sansa let the words wash over her, and sat quietly.  The lie niggled at her, and she turned over the conversation in her mind. 

“Thank you my lords, my ladies.  We will prevail before long,” Jon said, and Sansa quickly brought herself to stand at his side.  When the room was emptied, she sank back into her seat and looked up at him.  The meeting had passed her by, but she had arrived at an answer that made more sense than Daenerys protecting the North from afar.  She did not care so much that she would split her attention in such a fashion.  The answer was Bran or Jon himself. 

“There are wargs within your own family tree, aren’t there?  You are one of them.  Bran and Arya are the others.  Perhaps Robb and Rickon were too,” Sansa sighed.  “Were you not expecting me to realize?”  Jon sat at her side, a small smile on his face. 

“No, I knew you would discover it soon enough.  I wanted to delay the argument,” he replied.  He leaned toward her, eyeing her earnestly.  “Bran longs for a way to be useful.  He… he needs purpose Sansa.  Otherwise, he’ll flounder and we’ll not be able to save him.” 

“I do not disagree, though I would have wished to have been consulted.  Just as I would have wished to have been consulted about Arya,” she reached forward and grasped the pitcher that lay in the center of Jon’s table, as she spoke.  She poured herself a cup of the pale ale the servants knew he preferred and took a sip.  It was cider.  She squinted at him over the rim.  “You like cider,” he said in response to her look.  

“I do.  Don’t try to sidestep this,” Sansa said, squashing a smile, “Bran, I understand.  Arya, I do not.  What can you be thinking of?  How can you allow her to endanger herself when we have only just come home to each other?”  When he made no reply, only giving her a patient look, she went on, growing more frustrated.  “I have seen the sword you and Gendry have gifted her.  Has she called it Dark Sister?”  That made him look at her less tolerantly. 

“No, she has not called it Dark Sister.  But just as I make no attempt to stand in the way of her vengeance, I made no attempt to stand in the way of yours.”  Sansa froze, the cup halfway to her lips.  In the next moment, she had banged it down on his table.  Some of the liquid splattered her hand.  She looked at it, fingers tightening on the cup until it creaked. 

“You needed to kill him, and it was not my place to deny you.  He may not have posed a threat to your body, but he still had a tongue.  The things he might have said to you, could have made you remember; those were dangerous too.  Just as Cersei is.  I trusted you to know what was best for you.  Arya is a woman grown.  I trust her.”  He laid a hand near hers, and when she did not jerk it away, enfolded her fingertips in his palm. 

“You trust her, as you trust me,” Sansa said. 

“Aye, I do.”

“You are not wrong to trust us Jon, but even yet, you do not seem to believe me when I saw that Cersei Lannister is the most dangerous person in all the realm.”  She looked over at him.  He frowned, in response.  “Cersei will gain the upper hand, and my sister will be dead.”

Jon sat back, watching her for a long minute.  Sansa held his gaze, feeling the blood pounding in her ears.

“She is not my true sister, but I love her as well as you do,” he said finally, in a voice gone stiff with hurt.  He let go her hand and stood.  “I must see to Daenerys.”

Her fingers were cold, so she laced them together, ignoring the little lurch her tummy gave at the gruffness of his voice.  “Will they be ready to ride by morning?” she asked.  After a hesitation, Jon mastered himself and answered.  “They will set out before first light, and then Winterfell will be yours once more.” 

She nodded and rose from her chair.  Turning away, she was conscious of the wrench of leaving him.  But anger and fear burned in her belly too.  She set her lips and settled her hands in her sleeves.  There was more work to be done than the day was long. 

* * *

Within every lie was a truth.  The best lies were those that built upon what the listener already half-believed.  The game was won by those who had the most knowledge and knew how to use it.  Petyr had taught her that.  Even though she had hated the mummers farce Jon had embarked them upon, now that the first act was over, it was difficult to countenance that everything that happened next would be without her control. 

Yet, they would be free of one threat and that was not to be sneered at.  Sansa tried to keep the smile off her face at the thought of Winterfell free of Daenerys.  Then, Arya emerged from the hall, wind whipping at her cloak, and keeping somber became easy.  She wore the new gloves and fur-lined cap Sansa had made for her, in subdued Tully blue.  Her cloak was the grey of their Stark banner, and she had pinned it with a badge shaped like antlers.  Sansa smiled a little, then, unable to stop herself.  Arya glanced in her direction for a long moment, but did not approach.  She swung herself into the saddle, eyes locked into the distance. 

They had made their goodbyes, as a family, in front of the weirwood tree.  No one needed to spy the hug that had lingered between the four of them.  No one needed to know that Bran had lifted his face, eyes glittering with angry unshed tears and whispered that he would keep watch and warn her of danger whenever he could. 

“I am glad to see that you are able to smile, my lady.”  A voice sounded close by her ear.  Sansa jumped and whipped around to face the owner of the voice. 

It was Varys, the Spider.  She wondered that he had been able to keep himself away for so long.  It had been a fortnight since Daenerys had decided to return to the South.  He looked bland, but Sansa remembered that he’d looked the same when he’d stood at the side of Cersei Lannister and forced her to write that shameful letter to Robb.  He’d looked the same the day Father had been killed. 

She kept her smile and bobbed him a small curtsy and replied, “Lord Varys.  What brings you to me?”

“My lady, even working so hard, you are radiant,” he said, bowing slightly.  She nodded in thanks.

There was a silence, which Sansa did not hurry to break.  Finally, he spoke again, “I have some dire news for you, my lady.  To the south, our queen’s lands are under attack.  My reports say that that it is sellswords paid by Cersei Lannister.  It is fortuitous that the queen and her hand had already decided to leave once more.”

“How is this possible?  I thought the queen had left soldiers enough to safeguard what she’d won?” Sansa asked. 

“It seems that they have been overwhelmed.  Dragonstone yet remains under our queen’s control.  But I fear that soon not even Dragonstone will be hers.”

“What can we do to help, my lord?” Sansa asked, anxious.  She watched him uncover his hands from his sleeves.  They were strong looking hands, which jarred with the rest of his appearance.  When he reached over to take one of her hands in his, she could feel the callouses on his palms. 

“My lady, your kindness is more than we deserve.  Although I fear for the queen, I find my heart full of concern for the Starks and the North,” his voice and face were apologetic.  Sansa let him keep her hand, but set her face earnestly.  “Why do you fear for us Lord Varys?  Her Grace has been more than generous to allow the Unsullied and Rhaegal to remain in the North.  Considering what happened the last time she brought her dragons to our aid, I am overjoyed that she has seen fit to trust us once more with one of her children.” 

She waited, knowing he was wondering why she was not more concerned.  It gave her amusement to know that they had succeeded so well that not even the Spider knew the true plans.  Finally, he replied, “We leave you in such straits, and it may not be possible for us to return in time to support you in the great war that approaches, yet you forgive us all the same.  We are not worthy of your regard, Lady Stark.” 

He paused, unease writ large over his features.  “You must tell me if there is anything I can do in the days that come, to repay you.”  He shifted, uncomfortably, and then went on more quietly.  “I have always wished to tell you, my lady... your father loved you more than honor itself.  He never meant to leave you, nor your sister.”  He pressed a kiss to her fingers and bowing, walked away. 

Sansa knew herself to be staring, but could not stop her eyes from tracking the man as he wound his way to his mount.  It was an affront, almost, to hear anything about her father come from his lips.  She tore her eyes away from him, thinking furiously.  Winding her hands together, she squeezed her palms tight against each other until the leather creaked.  She could not fathom what had prompted his words.  Was it guilt?  For sure and certain, Varys would not have been party to any attempt to save her lord father.  

Sansa could feel her face suffusing with heat and the sharp prick of tears in her eyes.  She heaved a breath and cast about for a distraction.  This was not the time for loss of control.  As she searched, frantic for someone to speak to or a task to lay her hands to, she saw an opening.  Daenerys and Jon stood a little apart, speaking quietly.   Sansa approached them, wondering as she did if it was foolish. 

On the wind, she could hear Jon replying to Daenerys, “I will depend on it Your Grace.”  Sansa watched as Daenerys laid her fingertips along the curve of his jaw.  She said, cupping his face in her hand, “You need not fear for Arya, either.  I shall treat her as if she is my own sister.  I know Tyrion rather demanded this of you, but I know you see the wisdom of it.”  She interrupted herself and leaned up to kiss him. 

Jon smiled at her.  Close as she was, it was not hard to tell that the smile was all in his lips.  She wished suddenly to wash his face clean of the lie and bundle him away from Daenerys. 

Watching Jon play the dutiful lover, with wretchedness, Sansa remembered the anticipation she’d had as Father had told his lie on the steps of the Great Sept.  His face had been haggard with pain, but she’d been proud of him.  Father would say the words and then they would all be free.  Everything would go back to normal.  Perhaps, Varys had believed that himself. 

Unclasping her hands, Sansa took a shaky breath.  “Your Grace, forgive me the interruption.”  Her voice shook, and Sansa minded not at all.  Jon was no piece to pushed around the board at the whim of greater players. Neither was she.  Father’s life had ended in ignominy and cruel death, but Jon’s would not.  She would be sure of it.  

When Daenerys turned her gaze away from Jon, prettily flushed and smiling, Sansa brought herself to give a tremulous smile of her own in return.  The queen frowned then and approached her.  “What is it?”

“It is only a passing storm Your Grace,” Sansa smiled at her and dabbed at her eyes.  “We shall see each other once more, and I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”  Sansa watched the other woman smile and extend her arm.  Sansa reached to grasp it with her own. 

As they let go the embrace, Daenerys spoke, “You shall see me once more, and the storm I see on your face then will be a happy one I have no doubt,” she paused and leaned closer smiling wider, “We shall be good-sisters before long, never fear.”  Sansa laughed.  Daenerys nodded to her and turned away to mount.  Sansa backed away to stand with the bannermen who had come to see the dragon queen off.   Under their critical eye, Daenerys made her last speech. 

“You all know who I am.  My family’s rightful seat was taken by many of your fathers, brothers, and uncles.  That doesn’t matter anymore.  The only thing that matters defeating the Night King.  I leave you, with my Unsullied and my dragon Rhaegal to protect you, just as I protected so many others in Essos,” she said.  Her voice rang powerfully. 

Jon, who had stood a little apart from the cluster of bannermen who surrounded Sansa, made a short reply.  “And we thank you, Your Grace.  Travel swiftly and return triumphant.”  The two of them smiled at one another and then Daenerys turned her mare away.   She was the first through the gates, but the thunderous hooves of her Dothraki guards echoed within the yard for many minutes after.  Under the cover of the noise, Sansa heard a voice mutter good riddance.   

* * *

Supper was dragging long.  Without Sam, without Ser Davos, without Ayra, the days were a trial.  The twist in her belly that came whenever she thought of Arya was worsened whenever Gendry was near.  As tonight he was.  He sat, at the far end of the high table, drawing curious looks from the lords.  They’d heard whispers from the common folk who’d seen Arya tumble Gendry into his building near the forges in the weeks before she’d gone south.  He ignored them, grumbling responses to the others around him, a sour look deepening the lines in his brow.  He looked nothing like his father in such moments. 

Sansa sighed, raising a forkful of food to her lips.  She chewed, barely tasting it.  Gendry’s pain was not the only upset clouding the mood of the hall.  There were whispers too.  Of the Lannister Queen amassing an army of sellswords to come take back the North.   Others like Lord Royce had heard that the sellswords were meant to defeat the Unsullied army had brought from across the Narrow Sea.  Still others had heard tales of fishermen seeing Euron Greyjoy’s ironborn fleet making its way to the North.   

All of it was a distraction, though parts were, no doubt, true.  Sansa glanced to Jon who sat beside her.  They’d talked with Bran about the Night King in the days since Daenerys had left.  It was no more clear when the monster would arrive than it was before.  But the cold grew like a wild plant.  It creeped into places thought made fast, and more children and old folk everyday were being brought to Maester Wolkan and Gilly with blue fingers and toes.  And more frightening than any of the rumors, than the cold, than the threat of Cersei Lannister, was Jon’s fear.  

He didn’t look toward her, but he rose as though responding to her thoughts. 

“My lords, my ladies,” Jon spoke quietly but his voice reached above the din easily.  Within moments, the loudest of the lot had fallen into their seats, ale sloshing in their cups. 

Jon spoke into the hush, “You’ve all come at our call and we thank you for your loyalty.  As most of you know, the Wall has been breached at Eastwatch by the army of the dead.  Tormund Giantsbane brought us this news at great risk to himself.”

Sansa saw the shaggy red headed man lift his eyes to Jon’s briefly before lowering them again.  He’d been eerily silent since his mad dash south to Winterfell.  He loitered around Brienne and Edd when he wasn’t out beyond the walls of Winterfell tending to the Free Folk.  Sansa supposed she’d be silent too, if she’d nearly died as the Night King melted the wall from underneath her feet with fire from an undead dragon. 

“The arrowheads we’ve made, the breastplates, the spear tips will all be distributed to your most skilled men.  You will need to speak with Lady Stark and Maester Wolkan to arrange it,” Jon paused slightly, drawing in a deep breath before going on. 

“You’ve all seen the evidence of my trip to the South.  Daenerys Targaryen’s men fight beside us, Daenerys Targaryen’s dragonglass is being used to make our weapons, Daenerys Targaryen’s dragon lights our forges.”  He moved away from her then, and Sansa smothered a frown. 

When he’d told her that he planned to address all their bannermen at supper, Sansa had assumed he meant to reassure them.  To tell them that none of the balefires were lit, to remind them of how prepared they were.  But this was no way to do that. 

“Jon,” Sansa began to speak, unease growing.  Jon raised a hand, and she subsided, unhappily.  “As your King, I believed it was my duty to tell you the truth of the matters that threatened your peace and find ways to deal with them.  Now, I must set before you another—.”

A brazen, beating blast of a horn cut through his words. 

Jon stopped, his mouth hanging open. The noise, piercing, insistent vibrated in her teeth. Sansa reared back in her chair, hands clapping themselves over her ears. Before her, everyone was doing the same.  Once it had ended, she looked up and down the hall, realizing that Bran had never come to table and felt her belly twist.  She clamped down on her rising gorge and stood at Jon’s side. As the echoes had faded, his mouth had closed and his lips had firmed.  He glanced toward her, bracingly, and then away at their bannermen. 

“Keep your heads and get to your places.”  On the heels of his words, the horns brayed again.  Beneath Jon’s gaze, this time, their people kept their composure and rose, benches scraping and filed out through the doors.  There were no cheers, no chanting, but they were not afraid.  And that would do. 


	23. Chapter 23

“Milady—,” the chit of a girl glared at him and Davos sucked in a breath.  “ _Arya_ , this is not wise.  That dragon queen has got it in her head that your brother has no intention of being her liegeman.  You need to take Sam here and _go_   _north_ , not stick around the Riverlands, hoping for a miracle.”  Davos jammed a finger in Sam’s direction.  Obligingly, the boy was red faced and wheezing from the fall off his horse that Davos had engineered.  “Look at him.  You’ll never be able to see him to the Reach, not in the condition he’s in now.”  

“Considering it was you who put him in that condition, you would know wouldn’t you,” The retort was half-hearted.  She flicked a glance at him, brown hair swinging, a tooth dug into her lip.  Davos tried to look reassuring, encouraging. He had a little experience with highborn ladies now, but these Starks were a different breed.

“Come now.  You must see sense.  You know all the ways back to Winterfell. The horselords would not catch you, not unless you let them.  You can ride for White Harbor and take ship for home from there.  Your brothers and Lady Sansa—,” Davos stopped.   Arya had stopped listening and was half twisted in the saddle, head cocked.

“What is it?” Sam piped, gingerly rising.  He swung his face in the direction Arya stared, squinting.  Davos listened, straining his ears.  The ground shivered.   And shivered again.  

Horses.  

Davos grasped the reins of the horse he’d just tumbled Sam out of and took the boy by the arm.  “You and I are going to help the lady escape.  Get on the horse.”  Grunting, he shouldered Sam into the saddle and sent a whispered prayer to the Mother that the saddle girth wouldn’t snap again.  He swung up next and turned until he faced the girl.  Her face was set.  

“We go together or not at all.  I won’t leave you to face her alone.”  

A loyal bunch, the Starks.  Davos smiled a little.  “You ride faster than we do.  You know the ways better than we Southrons ever will.  Get back to the North.  We’ll mosey along without you just fine.”  The girl shook her head.  

“No.  We can make it south.  We can hide from the dragons and the Dothraki.  They’ll never find us.  The countryside is too big.  And if we continue, and Daenerys goes on the hunt for us, that means she will be too busy to turn north and hurt Jon and the others.”  Arya sidled closer, the tooth dug into her lip again and Davos saw suddenly another girl in her place.  Towheaded instead of brown, with a sweet smile instead of a worrisome tooth, but just as stubborn.  

“Your way then,” turning his head, Davos glanced at Sam, “will you make it lad?”

“Oh yes.  I’ve had rougher falls Ser Davos.  And anyhow there’s some motivation.  Now if we could stop talking and get on the way?”  Sam replied, eyebrows raised.  

 

* * *

 

Days of riding through the countryside, tripping over villagers hauling the last of their harvests home, glaring suspiciously at their clothes and horses, it was almost a relief for it all to come to a halt.  Arya had led whatever force chased them on a merry hunt.  She knew the land, as Davos thought she would.  No doubt she would have made it all the way to Kings Landing if he and Sam had not been millstones slowing her.  He clutched for moment at his neck, wishing for his luck.  

Surrounded by Dothraki on steaming horses, bows and arakhs pointed unerringly at them, Davos marveled at the quiet menace of these horselords.  They were, to a man, capable of feats the knights of Westeros could scarcely imagine.  Though, the bookish man at his side could— that was clear enough after the ride they’d had.  Sam had regaled them with everything he’d ever read about the Dothraki.  

It wasn’t much use in situations like this one.

Beside him, Arya settled a hand on her short sword.  The one she called Needle.  The horse under her sidled, steam curling from its nostrils.  To go out fighting was best, if dying at home in his sleep wasn’t an option.  Davos had concluded that long ago.  He laid a hand on the blade strapped to his hip, and looked over to Sam.  The squint was quite gone, and a crossbow lay across his knees. 

Ahead of them, noise rose, the words indistinguishable.  Then, a gap formed in the circled rows of riders.  Even from the distance, the silver Targaryen hair caught the light.  A younger Davos would have been stunned by her, the closer she came, but that would have been the Davos that still had a living son, that still had a little princess whom he imagined sometimes taking home to be his daughter.

Daenerys drew her mount to a halt.  “I looked for you, my lords, my lady.  But my riders told me that you had gone south ahead of us.  When we sought you, you hid,” Daenerys leaned forward, a frown tightening her brows.  “It was as though you had no wish to speak with me,” she lifted a hand from her reins and riders approached from all sides.  “Lay down your weapons and yield.  We have wasted enough time on the chase.”  Tightening his grip on his sword, Davos lifted his chin.  

“I’d agree Your Grace.  But we cannot simply yield without any assurances.  This is the King in the North’s youngest sister.  She’s to be married soon, and the king is expecting her back in one piece.  If you’ll give us your word not to harm us, then we’ll go with you.”  Davos stared at her, hoping that the stubbornness she’d flaunted so often on Dragonstone might not rear its head again.  His stomach turned at her reply. 

“Oathbreakers attempting to extract an oath from me?  That’s cause for a laugh, wouldn’t you say my lord?”  She barely paused enough for him to open his mouth in reply, before barreling on, “And what say you Lady Arya?  Are you anxious to return to the North?  Do you wish an oath from me?”  Davos tore his eyes away from Daenerys’ face, but there was no expression on Arya’s face.  Just a cold blankness.

“Your Grace, I’ve nothing to say that you’ll wish to hear,” Arya dipped her head a little, sweeping her eyes around the waiting Dothraki guards.  “You’ve made up your mind already, clear enough.  So do as you please.” 

 

* * *

 

“Was there a reason you gave up so easily, my lady?”  Arya glanced at him from her seat by the fire.  She looked like an urchin with dirt on her face and hands, and Davos had to fight the urge to tell the girl to find a bath.  She was not a child, and if a highborn lady wanted to sit in the dust, then what did it matter to him.  Davos eased himself onto the low camp bed across from her and waited.  

“You and Sam couldn’t go as far or as fast as I wanted.  I couldn’t leave you behind, so there was only one other choice, besides fighting and dying.  At least this way Bran and Sansa and Jon will have more time to plan what to do and fight the Night King before Daenerys comes back to wreak havoc on them all."

“Is that all?”

She peered at him over her shoulder before shifting to face him fully.  “What do you mean?”

“Well your brother told me that you’d be coming along because that was the price Tyrion Lannister was exacting for making sure that Daenerys Targaryen left the North without a stronger commitment.  Not one of your northern lords so much as bent a knee in her presence.  They hardly saw her at all.  From what I know of the woman, she must have been terrible distracted to leave without making sure of their loyalty to her banner.  But from what I saw of your sister and Tyrion, if he’d wanted to, Jon could’ve gotten round sending you south to parlay with your uncle in the Riverlands.”  He shifted a little toward Arya, feeling more certain of his words than he’d realized before opening his mouth.  

“So you’re here with the Targaryen woman’s forces for another reason then.  And whatever that is, is why you put up your sword without a fight,” Davos smiled, grimly.  The words had been easy to say, but there was surely nothing simple about Arya Stark’s reason for leaving her home, her family, and her betrothed.

Looking at the girl, he felt the stirrings of unease start again.  Her eyes were like empty pools.   There was no woman he’d ever come across with eyes like hers.  

“My sister and brothers had an idea, since I was going South anyway,” she paused, finally looking away from him.  Curling closer to the fire, she spoke softer.  “And thought perhaps we could solve a few problems with one stone.”  

“Well your sister laid a task on me as well, milady,” Davos began.  

“By the old gods and the new, if you say she asked you to protect me—,”

“An old fart like me?  I was a hindrance, as you saw clear enough.  No.  She asked me to see what the Manderly’s were about.”

“And?” Her outburst interrupted, Arya sat half-turned in the dirt.  Her eyes weren’t empty anymore.  

“And the men who crew the boats are new.  New faces everyday on the docks.  In the brothels.  In the shops.  An upswell of new faces. Manderly thinks it’s—,” light broke upon them suddenly, tent flaps drawn away from the entrance, and some of the Dothraki strode in.  Rough hands grasped at his arms, and Arya’s, and they were frog marched out of the tent and into the morass of soldiers and horses until they reached the center of it all: Daenerys’ pavilion.  

Varys and Missandei were arrayed near her, but neither of them would meet Davos’ looks.  He settled himself back on his heels and darted a glance about, as the guards deposited them in front of the Queen.  There was no sign of Sam, nor the Lannister.  And the woman herself was inscrutable.  

“My Master of Whispers here tells me that I ought to judge for myself whether this letter,” Daenerys tapped a scroll that lay on her lap, “tells it true.”  She flicked her gaze over Davos, and shifted to stare at Arya.  “Are the Starks as false as my father found them to be?  Do they conspire with Lannisters to usurp the throne once again?” she sighed, and her voice grew softer, “Or is this a ploy to drive us apart?”

Under the weight of the queen’s gaze, Davos was unsurprised that Arya was able to keep her silence.  It was not a bad opening salvo, as far as such things went.  “Your Grace,” Davos spoke, catching the queen’s attention.

“As you know, I was a smuggler once.  And old instincts die hard.  If someone I was supposed to be doing a deal with, suddenly got word that I was less than trustworthy... well the last thing I would’ve done would be stick around and see if I could talk my way round them.  Better to cut my losses and run, Your Grace, and make money another day.”

“A long-winded way of saying you were the one to convince the lady Arya to leave,” she settled back in her chair, fingers still tapping on the scroll.  “But true bannermen would never have anything to fear from their liege.  Running away is as good as admitting to lying to me.”  Davos interrupted, “We cannot do much more than prove otherwise, can we, Your Grace?” 

She eyed him for a long moment and then looked away to gesture at the spymaster, Varys.  Bobbing a nod, he left the cover of the pavilion.  Davos tracked his progress until he disappeared behind a cluster of horses.  “So what now?”  Davos heard Arya say.  He watched her sink to her haunches and then sit.  “A slow and painful death for one of us so that the others will talk?  Perhaps you’ve got Sam tied up somewhere being beaten half to death by your bloodriders?”  Flattened as her voice was, there was no mistaking the disdain woven throughout.

“My advisors suggest otherwise,” Daenerys paused.  “Ah.  Here they are.”

“The lord, Samwell Tarly, alive and unharmed, Your Grace.”  Davos had watched them approach.  Unharmed was a stretch.  The boy was red-faced, mouth drawn down into a tremulous line.  He gazed at Varys, knowing and not caring that the snake could see the accusation on his face.  

“Good.  Your brother seems to have gone to great lengths to keep this man’s family name hidden from me.  Would you care to share why that is?”

“The king did no such thing.  You never asked what Sam’s name was.   Everyone at Winterfell knew he was a Southron, from the scullery maids to the Knights of the Vale.  Everyone knew that when the king was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he ordered Samwell Tarly south to Oldtown to try for a chain and replace old Maester Aemon,” Davos watched Daenerys jerk a little at Arya’s words, and wondered at the reaction.  He dared not glance at Sam or anyone else.   

“And everyone knew that for love of the king, Sam left Oldtown to fight at his side against the White Walkers.”  Arya finished, peacefully folding her hands between her knees.  “The last Tarly was in front of you the whole time.  You just didn’t think.”

“What my lady Arya means, is that we did not know it would give you offense to have him in the castle, Your Grace.  Sam has given up all allegiance to his house and family.  He serves the Night’s Watch now.  And the men of the watch take no part.”  Every child of Westeros knew the line by heart.  He wondered if Daenerys knew or cared.  

“That is true so far as it goes Your Grace.”  Davos swung around.  Tyrion Lannister approached, face as stern as Davos had ever seen it.  He looked a hairsbreadth from ripping his hair out, too.   

“The Night’s Watch are an order who have sworn to defend the realm against the White Walkers.  If Samwell Tarly travels south, then—.”

Daenerys spoke over him, “You said Aemon.”  Davos saw Tyrion’s face fall before the frustration was hidden.  The two were truly at odds then.  Just as they had been on the beach.  

“That is a Targaryen name surely.  A Targaryen served on the Wall?”  Daenerys asked.  

“He did.  And his was the vote that made my brother Lord Commander,” Arya responded.  She and Daenerys held gazes for a long moment before Daenerys turned to Varys.  When he nodded in confirmation, she gave a little shrug of her shoulders.   “Ser Jorah would prefer if I locked you up or sent you home to Jon and continued South to Kings Landing.  Varys and Tyrion agree.  But I don’t.  I want you with me.  You are going to prove your loyalty, in your brother’s name.”  Daenerys rose, all consternation gone.  “You’ll convince your uncle Tully to lay down his arms and bend the knee.  And once you do so, we shall be friends as we were before.”

She strode away, Missandei following and the horselords trailing behind.  When she was full gone, Varys minced toward him, a hand dropping to squeeze at his elbow.  Davos frowned, but waited as the man leaned close.  

“Your boys are quite good you know.  A little seasoning, and Tarly will be quite worthy.”  Davos reared away, but as he opened his mouth to speak Arya spoke instead.  “Let’s get Sam to the tent.”

 

* * *

 

Edmure Tully seemed to have the sense of a goose and since the Lannister forces had withdrawn to the south, the Lord of Riverrun had made some effort to secure the castle.  The back of his neck prickling with sudden foreboding, Davos turned from his contemplation of the raised drawbridge, the flooded moat sparkling and spiked with treacherous metal blades, and the unswerving arms of the archers, back toward the churned up earth and hastily erected tents that were Daenerys’ camp.  

Behind him, peering at him with the same blanketed menace as always was Daenerys chief Dothraki guard.  By now, just the sight of him was enough to send a worrisome chill down Davos’ spine.  The boy probably knew it too.  Bullies were the same in any language.  Without waiting for his arm to be gripped to bruising, Davos set out for the queen’s pavilion.  

This was the beginning of the second week since they’d arrived and nothing had enticed Tully to peek his precious head outside his castle.  And he’d done what any smart lord would do, and brought the small folk and the food inside the walls.  There was nothing to be hunted, no hostages to be gathered.   Nothing to speak of really but to either melt the castle and turn it into another Harrenhal or walk on.    

Yet the queen stayed doing neither.  Varys, tentatively sounded, had nothing to say.  Tyrion was too dangerous to speak to.   Missandei would’ve been best to talk to, at least the Missandei he’d come to know at Winterfell.  This girl she’d reverted to, withdrawn and intimidating, was as like to report an idle comment about the fine weather they were having to the queen as a possible threat.  

That left Arya.  

He’d asked Sam, what he thought Arya was doing, knowing that Sam Tarly was a funny sort.  Reminded him of the bookkeepers Salla had charged to look after his wealth, once the old pirate had started amassing it.   A little nervous, with a squint settled into the brows of the face perpetually.  But Samwell was clever in a way those grubbers could never have matched.  Devious with it really.  It was no wonder Jon Snow had sent the boy to train as a maester.  And it was no wonder the child had left.  Life was too short to sit behind a desk and chivvy spoiled lordlings through their lessons.  

There was no chance, Sam had whispered to him that Lady Arya was doing any other than biding her time.  And by any measure that was true.  When the queen asked for her presence, Arya came.  She told the queen stories, taught the queen how to hold a blade, submitted to having her hair braided.  All without losing her smile.  

For what was she waiting was the question eating at him.  The girl made no sense.  In that, she was just like her sister.  She could not think that the queen was going to send her home to Winterfell.  No matter what mummer’s show she was putting on, the queen eyed them all with suspicion.  

“Good morning to you, Your Grace,” Davos said. The queen was standing above a roughly drawn map on hide.  “Ser Davos.”  The response came remotely.  After a long moment, Daenerys beckoned him closer.  

“My riders tell me you’ve been eyeing the castle walls.  And my Hand tells me you’ve played your part in sieges before.   How will this one end?”  She leaned against the table, fingers tapping a quick beat.  

“Well Your Grace, I am a sailor, not a battle commander.  But history will tell you Riverrun has never been taken.  Not while the bridge is up and the moat is flooded.”

“And with my dragons?”

“Then there will be no more Riverrun,” Davos paused, weighing the disinterested tone she had taken.  “And since Edmure Tully has not met his niece and seems like to continue ignoring her letters, I feel your plan might be best served by moving along south.”

A grunt followed those words.  When the silence had dragged on, Davos spoke again.  “What is it you’re really wishing to ask me Your Grace?”  

She turned from her contemplation of the map finally and leaned against the table with her hip.  “I’d like the truth, Ser Davos.   I sent away a man who had served me, once, because I received a letter telling me of his betrayals.  Of his dishonesty.  I banished him from my presence and called it mercy.   And then he served me from afar.  He saved my life and made all of his possible.”  She waved her hand around, gesturing at the milling soldiers and horses. 

“I was wrong to listen to that letter.  It spoke the truth.  But the truth was no longer true.  And Missandei tells me that if there was anyone who could speak the truth about Jon Snow, it would be you.  So give me the truth Ser Davos.”

“You’d be wanting to speak to his sister,” Davos replied.  He hadn’t expected the woman to be hoping that the letter wasn’t true.  Or perhaps this was the trick.   As he stood thinking, Daenerys sighed.  “I have been speaking with Arya and she speaks most wonderfully of her home and her childhood.  But she knows the boy Jon Snow, not the man he has become.  You know him.  Defend your lord, Ser Davos.”

“I hardly know what to say Your Grace.  Jon Snow is a plainspoken man.  He wants to serve the realm and he doesn’t want much in return.  I’d wager that he wants nothing at all, except to rest of an evening and not worry.”  Davos shut his mouth, feeling the fool.  Daenerys wanted to hear of love and devotion.  “And his time with you at Winterfell brought him that, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps.  But when—,” 

“Daenerys!”  Jorah Mormont rushed into the pavilion, jostling Davos aside.  Davos staggered and steadied himself, wondering at what had come over the man.  

“The banner of the Second Sons has appeared.  They’re approaching from the east.  From the direction of the Iron Islands.”  His agitation transferred itself to the queen.  

“And Daario?  Have my riders spied him yet?”  

“Not yet my queen.  What do you wish us to do? We do not know if he means you ill.”

“Well that’s simple enough to solve Your Grace,” as he words left his mouth, Davos wondered if Daenerys would understand what he was really saying.  “Send an envoy to bring him here.  Judge for yourself what his intentions are.”

She looked over at him and nodded.  

 

* * *

 

“He has refused Your Grace.”

Instead of replying Daenerys sighed explosively.  “Fine.  If that is the case, I will go ask him myself.”  At that, Davos raised his eyes from the contemplation of the ground and looked around the group.  Mormont was as taciturn as ever.  Lannister was looking poorly, mouth twisted into a grimace.  Arya, freed from writing another letter to her uncle spoke into the stillness that had developed. 

"I’ll go too.”

“My lady,” Vary began.  “You need not endanger yourself.  Our queen is quite sure of your loyalty.”

“I am, though I would say not say no to having Arya’s sword by my side when I speak with Daario Naharis.  He is clever after all.  Clever enough to see his way here.”

Davos kept his silence, wondering which of the queen’s retainers would see fit to question the queen’s pronouncement.  Unsurprisingly, the Lannister could not hold his tongue.  “Your Grace.  Whatever Jon Snow may or may not have plotted with my sister, it remains that we have Naharis here for unknown reasons,” he glanced at Varys for the briefest instant.  “And both Naharis and the lady Arya are dangers to your person.  If you must see to the sellsword yourself, take your horselords as guards.  Take Mormont.  Take me if you must.  But give me an axe first.”

“My lord,” Arya spoke before the queen could rely.  “There is little chance I would harm the queen, but for chance accident.  I want to ride a dragon, that is all.”  

“You, Jorah, and my guard shall accompany me. Though we will not ride atop Drogon, the experience of meeting Daario will more than make up for it.  Now come.”  Daenerys strode away, beckoning Arya to follow.  Davos stared after them both.  A chance accident would put the little lady in danger, but everyday her uncle stayed behind his walls and refused a parlay was dangerous too.

“Bringing the lady Arya along is a terrible idea, if you’ll pardon me saying so gentlemen,” Davos looked around at the three of them.  “But it seems to me that whiles the queen is gone we might have a better chance of getting Tully there,” Davos gestured toward Riverrun with a jerk of his head, “to at least pop his head over the battlements to talk.”

Mormont ignored him and stalked after the queen.  Varys and Tyrion stared after him and then at each other for a long moment.  

“Your Jon Snow took me to speak with his brother Bran not long before we left.  Did he tell you?” Tyrion asked.  Davos shook his head, feeling wary.  

“No.  Well it was a striking conversation.  Interrogation one might even say.  It was well done too.  I didn’t even realize I was being maneuvered until we were long gone from Winterfell.  Give him something by giving him nothing.  Jon learns quickly.”

“My lord?”  Davos asked.  

“So what is Jon Snow’s aim Ser Davos?  The whole of the Seven Kingdoms?  The North?  With the Vale and the Riverlands too?”

Davos felt a spike of dread shoot through him.  There was no mistaking the look Lannister was giving him.  “My lord.  Jon Snow has one purpose.  Defend the realms from the greatest threat it has ever seen.  He wants no Iron Throne to plant his arse on.  He couldn't give two shits about the Riverlands belonging to the North or the South.  He simply wants Westeros to survive.  And he will make sure it does.”  He closed his lips before saying anything unwise.  It was a near thing.  

“That is precisely what your young friend Samwell had to say when we spoke to him,” Varys replied lightly.  “He was most adamant that Jon cared for little else, which would explain his less than suitable behavior.  We wondered if you would tell the same tale, and you have.”

Varys glanced at Tyrion.  “My friend worries, incessantly, over the realms, Ser Davos.  He is most ardent in his belief that Daenerys Targaryen is the answer to all our ills.”

Davos stared at the other man, hearing the words left unsaid.   _And I am not_.  

“But now that you have assuaged our fears, perhaps you can share with us your idea?”  Varys continued, looking back at him.  

“Certainly.  Clear out the Dothraki except for a small force.  Send them on down the kingsroad and we shall stay here and call for a parlay.  It’s the Dothraki that must be spooking them.  They’ll never open the gates with them so close.”

“You want us to order Daenerys’ army away from the castle she wants to take... so that we can take the castle.”  Tyrion spoke dryly.  

“It’s said you’re a great one for diplomacy milord.  That’s what this is,” Davos replied.  When Tyrion made no response, he went on, “Send them half a morning’s ride south.  They’ll still be close enough in case the queen has need of them.”

“It is an interesting idea,” Varys said in reply.    Tyrion threw a sharp look at Varys before pacing away, speaking over his shoulder.  “I will find Daenerys and ask her approval.  But this is a stupid idea.”

 

* * *

 

The banner was new painted, and the onion had driblets of paint smearing down to plop on the still churned mud.  It seemed, nonetheless, to have done the trick because Edmure Tully, the poor bastard, had finally ordered the drawbridge lowered.   

“The onion knight.  At the side of Daenerys Targaryen,” Tully said, by way of greeting.  “You are one of the wonders of the world, Seaworth.”

“I thank you, milord.  Though I am not here on behalf of the queen, as much as I am on behalf of the realm.”

“Seven save me,” Tully replied, sounding amused.  “And what does _the realm_  want with Riverrun?  Does it want me to get down on bended knee and give fealty to Winterfell, the Iron Throne, or the Targaryen?”

“I am sure Daenerys would prefer it if you gave your oath to her, but the Lady of Winterfell only wishes for your help with the Night King.  No oaths of loyalty are needed between family, are they milord?”

“Family.  And where is my family?  Little Arya has been writing me terrible letters.  Hardly a true word to be found in the lot.”  Davos took a breath before replying.  Tully was, he could tell, an annoying sort.  “She has been asked to accompany the queen on a short expedition eastward.  But she will return soon.  If I could speak frankly milord?”

Tully gestured at him, a brief chop of the hand that spoke to his impatience.  “I need to get word to Winterfell.  And you need to understand that if you do not give the Targaryen girl what she wants, she will take it.  With fire and suchlike.  So open the gates, let her in, help her get south and out of your domain as quick as you can.”

“And what do I get in return Seaworth?  Cersei Lannister is breathing down my neck, asking for taxes and food that I do not have.  There are Dothraki roaming my lands.  My wife and son are in another castle entirely, and my only other remaining family are arrogant enough to send someone like you to speak with me.  I see no security for the Riverlands in any of this.”

“You’ll get what you deserve Edmure Tully.  A castle that still stands, smallfolk that aren’t smoldering piles of blackened bones.  You’ll get to keep your own life,” Tyrion Lannister had approached at some point.  

“There is nothing sweeter in this world, I am told, than holding your first child in your arms.  But you won’t have arms, if you don’t open your gates to Daenerys when she returns.  And your line will end for she will burn the Twins, too.”  Tully glared at the other man, teeth clenched and nostrils flaring.  

“Make your choice.  But don’t be stubborn like the Blackfish was.  You remember how that ended don’t you?”  When Tully made no reply Tyrion shrugged and walked back across the drawbridge.  Davos watched him walk away, wondering at his doggedness.  It made him uncomfortable, and reminded him of serving Stannis.   Dragging his eyes away from Tyrion’s retreating back, he looked to Tully again.  

“You’re in a spot, milord.  And your family can help you, if you let me send word to them.”  Tully gestured again and interjected.  “Give me the missive.  I’ll have it sent onward to Winterfell.  But I have no doubt that I’ll need to save myself on my own, just as I did before.”  He paused, then went on, reluctantly, “Tell them I shall receive the Targaryen on the field beyond the gates of Riverrun on her return.”

Davos nodded and struck his banner.  A little more of the onion had dripped its way down the cloth in the warmth of the afternoon.   He urged his mount to a walk and reached into his surcoat for the letter.  As he pulled it out and laid it in Tully’s open palm, he looked into the other man’s face.  “You can read this is if that is your wish, milord.  I only ask that you send it today.  Now.  Before Daenerys returns from her errand.  Lady Sansa must have this message.”  He waited, sustaining Tully’s confused, belligerent glare until he nodded.  

Nodding in return, Davos turned his horse back to the camp.  

 

* * *

 

“You and he and the rest of the kingdoms have no intention of ever bending the knee, do you?” Tyrion paused for the space of a breath before barreling on. “Don’t bother answering that.  Answer this instead: do none of you see that your bullheadedness will kill us all?  We must unite under one banner or we will be torn to shreds.”  Tyrion paced from end of the tent to the next.  The sound of hooves, of the Dothraki returning, surrounded them.  

“My lord... from the moment you greeted us on the beach at Dragonstone I knew that your queen had not come to unify us.  She came to conquer us.  You’re a smart man.  You know that these two words mean different things.  She is a danger to everyone who’s survived the War of the Five Kings.  To everyone who survived the Battle of the Bastards.  She’s a danger and every moment you ignore that, is a moment that makes it more likely that she will kill us all.”  Davos squeezed his hands tight over his knees.  This was as much a gamble as talking to Tully had been.  

Tyrion made no reply for a long moment.  He knew, that much was obvious.  He could see her faults clear as daybreak.  “I can help her.  We all can help her.”

“Did she let you help her when she decided to burn all of the last harvest from the Reach?”

Tyrion turned to him then, distress showing itself finally in the sudden pallor of his face.  “That will never be repeated.  She has Jon Snow and me to guide her.”

“And if Jon falls in battle?  Take it from me, milord, serving a lord with demons in his head is akin to fighting a battle that can never be won.  Stannis was driven like your Daenerys is.  He believed he had a purpose like your Daenerys does.  He did terrible things because of that purpose.  And he would have done still more terrible things, if it got him what he wanted.”

“I should throw you to the Dothraki and have them take care of you.”

Davos leaned toward him in reply.  “I’m not a fighter, so I’ll not be able to stop you.  You’ve read our histories.  Is another Targaryen dynasty what this realm needs?  Is she different than her ancestors?”  Tyrion made for the tent’s cloth covered flap, instead of responding.  

“At White Harbor, the seamen tell me that Slaver’s Bay is a ruin.  All sorts of depravity, cruelty that hasn’t been seen in generations.  The name _Stormborn_ is become a curse.  Like as not, the people across the Narrow Sea were worse off now that the Mother of Dragons had made her way from Essos to Westeros.  The same way that the smallfolk of the Reach were no doubt starving and dying.”  Davos said, stopping him in his tracks.  Samwell Tarly was going to have his work cut out for him, if he ever did make it home to Horn Hill.  

“Ser Davos, you speak eloquently for a smuggler.”  Tyrion replied, voice sounding strained.  “If she is the danger you all say she is, then what am I do to?  Strangle her to death when she least expects it?”  Davos stared at the other man’s back, feeling nauseated.  

“I am no assassin milord, and neither are you,” Davos replied slowly.  “Yet it seems to me that we will not need to _do_  anything.  The Night King will see to the dragons if the skirmish at Eastwatch is any indication.  And that will reduce much of the threat.”

Tyrion glanced at him, over his shoulder.  “I made a vow you know.  To serve her.   To protect her.  I’ve never done that before.  I’d like to keep it.”

“You can protect her milord,” Davos replied.  “By making sure she doesn’t so enrage Westeros that they rise up against her.  For that is what will happen.  Same as what would have happened to my lord, if the Boltons hadn’t seen to him.”

Tyrion sighed and shaking his head, left the tent. Davos grimaced.  It wasn’t likely that he’d tell his queen of the conversation, but leaving it unfinished rankled.  Though it was not a bad thing, necessarily.  The more Daenerys showed him how unfit she was to rule; the more likely Tyrion would see sense.  Ambling to the opening of the tent, he could see nothing but horses thundering this way and that.  He ducked under the tent flap and walked back toward the drawbridge.  

Hours had passed since the parlay with Tully and every moment that passed was another moment closer to Daenerys’ return.  He’d been watching, as well as he could for ravens flying northward, but none had appeared.  Eyes straining for any speck of black rising from within the castle walls, he missed the soft footsteps that came up behind him.  When Arya greeted him, his heart nearly beat out of his chest.  

“Arya child, you damn near killed me.”  She didn’t reply but to raise her eyebrows.

“And how was Daario Naharis?”  Davos asked.  

“Boring.  He kissed her arse until she decided to let him join her.  So now the Second Sons are a part of her forces.”  Davos winced, thinking of what he’d said about removing the dragons taking away much of the threat Daenerys represented.  

“And then Daario stopped being boring,” Arya said, much softer.  

“How do you mean?”

“He came to me as we set out for Riverrun and told me something only my brother Bran would know.”  Davos turned to her open-mouthed.  The words were nonsense, but Arya looked at him with every appearance of truth.  As Davos mustered a reply, intending to ask just what it was that the man had said, from the corner of his eye, he saw what he had been waiting for.  A speck of black rising from the walls of Riverrun.  

The raven soared higher and turned north.


End file.
